Only a few men, comparatively speaking, lead their lives in the wilderness; only a few others, again speaking comparatively, are able to take their holidays in the shape of hunting trips in the wilderness. But all who live in the country, or who even spend a month now and then in the country, can enjoy outdoor life themselves, and can see that their children enjoy it in the hardy fashion which will do them good. Camping out, and therefore the cultivation of the capacity to live in the open, and the education of the faculties which teach observation, resourcefulness, self-reliance, are within the reach of all who really care for the life of the woods, the fields, and the waters. Marksmanship with the rifle can be cultivated with small cost or trouble; and if any one passes much time in the country he can, if only he chooses, learn much about horsemanship.

But aside from any such benefit, it is an incalculable added pleasure to any one’s sum of happiness if he or she grows to know, even slightly and imperfectly, how to read and enjoy the wonder-book of nature. All hunters should be nature lovers. It is to be hoped that the days of mere wasteful, boastful slaughter, are past, and that from now on the hunter will stand foremost in working for the preservation and perpetuation of the wild life, whether big or little.

The Audubon Society and kindred organizations have done much for the proper protection of birds and of wild creatures generally; they have taken the lead in putting a stop to wanton or short-sighted destruction, and in giving effective utterance to the desires of those who wish to cultivate a spirit as far removed as possible from that which brings about such destruction. Sometimes, however, in endeavoring to impress upon a not easily aroused public the need for action, they in their zeal overstate this need. This is a very venial error compared to the good they have done; but in the interest of scientific accuracy it is to be desired that their cause should not be buttressed in such manner. Many of our birds have diminished lamentably in numbers, and there is every reason for taking steps to preserve them. There are water birds, shore birds, game birds, and an occasional conspicuous bird of some other kind, which can only be preserved by such agitation. It is also most desirable to prevent the slaughter of small birds in the neighborhood of towns. But I question very much whether there has been any diminution of small-bird life throughout the country at large. Certainly no such diminution has taken place during the past thirty years in any region of considerable size with which I am personally acquainted. Take Long Island, for instance. During this period there has been a lamentable decrease in the waders—the shore-birds—which used to flock along its southern shore. But in northern Long Island, in the neighborhood of my own home, birds, taken as a whole, are quite as plentiful as they were when I was a boy. There are one or two species which have decreased in numbers, notably the woodcock; while the passenger pigeon, which was then a rarely seen straggler, does not now appear at all. Bobwhites are less plentiful. On the other hand, some birds have certainly increased in numbers. This is true, for instance, of the conspicuously beautiful and showy scarlet tanager. I think meadow larks are rather more plentiful than they were, and wrens less so. Bluebirds have never been common with us, but are now rather more common than formerly. It seems to me as if the chickadees were more numerous than formerly. Purple grackles are more plentiful than when I was a boy, and the far more attractive redwing blackbirds less so. But these may all be, and doubtless some must be, purely local changes, which apply only to our immediate neighborhood. As regards most of the birds, it would be hard to say that there has been any change. Of course, obvious local causes will now and then account for a partial change. Thus, while the little green herons are quite as plentiful as formerly in our immediate neighborhood, the white-crowned night herons are not as plentiful, because they abandoned their big heronry on Lloyd’s Neck upon the erection of a sand-mill close by. The only ducks which are now, or at any time during the last thirty years have been, abundant in our neighborhood are the surf-ducks or scoters, and the old-squaws, sometimes known as long-tailed or sou’-sou’-southerly ducks. From late fall until early spring the continuous musical clangor of the great flocks of sou’-sou’-southerlies, sounding across the steel-gray, wintry waves, is well known to all who sail the waters of the Sound.

Neither the birds nor the flowers are as numerous on Long Island, or at any rate in my neighborhood, as they are, for instance, along the Hudson and near Washington. It is hard to say exactly why flowers and birds are at times so local in their distribution. For instance, the bobolinks hardly ever come around us at Sagamore Hill. Within a radius of three or four miles of the house I do not remember to have ever seen more than two or three couples breeding. Sharp-tailed finches are common in the marsh which lies back of our beach; but the closely allied seaside finches and the interesting and attractive little marsh wrens, both of which are common in various parts of Long Island, are not found near our home. Similarly, I know of but one place near our house where the bloodroot grows; the may-flowers are plentiful, but among hillsides to all appearance equally favored, are found on some, and not on others. For wealth of bloom, aside from the orchards, we must rely chiefly upon the great masses of laurel and the many groves of locusts. The bloom of the locust is as evanescent as it is fragrant. During the short time that the trees are in flower the whole air is heavy with the sweet scent. In the fall, in the days of the aster and the golden-rod, there is no such brilliant coloring on Long Island as farther north, for we miss from among the forest hues the flaming crimsons and scarlets of the northern maples.

Among Long Island singers the wood thrushes are the sweetest; they nest right around our house, and also in the more open woods of oak, hickory, and chestnut, where their serene, leisurely songs ring through the leafy arches all day long, but especially at daybreak and in the afternoons. Baltimore orioles, beautiful of voice and plumage, hang their nests in a young elm near a corner of the porch; robins, catbirds, valiant kingbirds, song-sparrows, chippies, bright colored thistle-finches, nest within a stone’s throw of the house, in the shrubbery or among the birches and maples; grasshopper sparrows, humble little creatures with insect-like voices, nest almost as close, in the open field, just beyond the line where the grass is kept cut; humming-birds visit the honeysuckles and trumpet-flowers; chimney swallows build in the chimneys; barn swallows nest in the stable and old barn, wrens in the bushes near by. Downy woodpeckers and many other birds make their homes in the old orchard; during the migrations it is alive with warblers. Towhees, thrashers, and Maryland yellow-throats build and sing in the hedges by the garden; bush sparrows and dainty little prairie warblers in the cedar-grown field beyond. Red-wing blackbirds haunt the wet places. Chickadees wander everywhere; the wood-pewees, red-eyed vireos, and black-and-white creepers keep to the tall timber, where the wary, thievish jays chatter, and the great-crested fly-catchers flit and scream. In the early spring, when the woods are still bare, when the hen-hawks cry as they soar high in the upper air, and the flickers call and drum on the dead trees, the strong, plaintive note of the meadow lark is one of the most noticeable and most attractive sounds. On the other hand, the cooing of the mourning doves is most noticeable in the still, hot summer days. In the thick tangles chats creep and flutter and jerk, and chuckle and whoop as they sing; I have heard them sing by night. The cedar birds offer the most absolute contrast to the chats, in voice, manner, and habits. They never hide, they are never fussy or noisy; they always behave as if they were so well-bred that it is impossible to resent the inroads the soft, quiet, pretty creatures make among the cherries. One flicker became possessed of a mania to dig its hole in one corner of the house, just under the roof. It hammered lustily at boards and shingles, and returned whenever driven away; until at last we were reluctantly forced to decree its death. Oven-birds are very plentiful, and it seems to me that their flight song is more frequently given after dusk than in daylight. It is sometimes given when the whippoorwills are calling. In late June evenings, especially by moonlight, but occasionally even when the night is dark, we hear this song from the foot of the hill where the woods begin. There seems to be one particular corner where year after year one or more oven-birds dwell which possess an especial fondness for this night-singing in the air. It is a pity the little eared owl is called screech-owl. Its tremulous, quavering cry is not a screech at all, and has an attraction of its own. These little owls come up to the house after dark, and are fond of sitting on the elk antlers over the gable. When the moon is up, by choosing one’s position, the little owl appears in sharp outline against the bright disk, seated on his many-tined perch.

The neighborhood of Washington abounds in birds no less than in flowers. There have been one or two rather curious changes among its birds since John Burroughs wrote of them forty years ago. He speaks of the red-headed woodpecker as being then one of the most abundant of all birds—even more so than the robin. It is not uncommon now, and a pair have for three years nested in the White House grounds; but it is at present by no means an abundant bird. On the other hand, John Burroughs never saw any mocking-birds, whereas during the last few years these have been increasing in numbers, and there are now several places within easy walking or riding distance where we are almost sure to find them. The mocking-bird is as conspicuous as it is attractive, and when at its best it is the sweetest singer of all birds; though its talent for mimicry, and a certain odd perversity in its nature, often combine to mar its performances. The way it flutters and dances in the air when settling in a tree-top, its alert intelligence, its good looks, and the comparative ease with which it can be made friendly and familiar, all add to its charm. I am sorry to say that it does not nest in the White House grounds. Neither does the wood thrush, which is so abundant in Rock Creek Park, within the city limits. Numbers of robins, song-sparrows, sputtering, creaking purple grackles—crow blackbirds—and catbirds nest in the grounds. So, I regret to say, do crows, the sworn foes of all small birds, and as such entitled to no mercy. The hearty, wholesome, vigorous songs of the robins, and the sweet, homelike strains of the song-sparrows are the first to be regularly heard in the grounds, and they lead the chorus. The catbirds chime in later; they are queer, familiar, strongly individual birds, and are really good singers; but they persist in interrupting their songs with catlike squalling. Two or three pairs of flickers nest with us, as well as the red-headed woodpeckers above mentioned; and a pair of furtive cuckoos. A pair of orchard orioles nested with us one spring, but not again; the redstarts, warbling vireos, and summer warblers have been more faithful. Baltimore orioles frequently visit us, as do the scarlet tanagers and tufted titmice, but for some reason they have not nested here. This spring a cardinal bird took up his abode in the neighborhood of the White House, and now and then waked us in the morning by his vigorous whistling in a magnolia tree just outside our windows. A Carolina wren also spent the winter with us, and sang freely. In both spring and fall the white-throated sparrows sing while stopping over in the course of their migrations. Their delicate, plaintive, musical notes are among the most attractive of bird sounds. In the early spring we sometimes hear the fox-sparrows and tree-sparrows, and of course the twittering snow-birds. Later warblers of many kinds throng the trees around the house. Rabbits breed in the grounds, and every now and then possums wander into them. Gray squirrels are numerous, and some of them so tame that they will eat out of our hands. In spring they cut the flowers from the stately tulip trees. In the hot June days the indigo birds are especially in evidence among the singers around Washington; they do not mind the heat at all, but perch in the tops of little trees in the full glare of the sun, and chant their not very musical, but to my ears rather pleasing, song throughout the long afternoons. This June two new guests came to the White House in the shape of two little saw-whet owls; little bits of fellows, with round heads, and no head tufts, or “ears.” I think they were the young of the year; they never uttered the saw-whet sound, but made soft snoring noises. They always appeared after nightfall, when we were sitting on the south porch, in the warm, starlit darkness. They were fearless and unsuspicious. Sometimes they flew noiselessly to and fro, and seemingly caught big insects on the wing. At other times they would perch on the iron awning-bars, directly overhead. Once one of them perched over one of the windows, and sat motionless, looking exactly like an owl of Pallas Athene.

At Sagamore Hill we like to have the wood-folk and field-folk familiar; but there are necessary bounds to such familiarity where chickens are kept for use and where the dogs are valued family friends. The rabbits and gray squirrels are as plenty as ever. The flying squirrels and chipmunks still hold their own; so do the muskrats in the marshes. The woodchucks, which we used to watch as we sat in rocking-chairs on the broad veranda, have disappeared; but recently one has made himself a home under the old barn, where we are doing our best to protect him. A mink which lived by the edge of the bay under a great pile of lumber had to be killed; its lair showed the remains not only of chickens and ducks, but of two muskrats, and, what was rather curious, of two skates or flatfish. A fox which lived in the big wood lot evidently disliked our companionship and abandoned his home. Of recent years I have actually seen but one fox near Sagamore Hill. This was early one morning, when I had spent the night camping on the wooded shores near the mouth of Huntington Harbor. The younger children were with me, this being one of the camping-out trips, in rowboats, on the Sound, taken especially for their benefit. We had camped the previous evening in a glade by the edge of a low sea-bluff, far away from any house; and while the children were intently watching me as I fried strips of beefsteak and thin slices of potatoes in bacon fat, we heard a fox barking in the woods. This gave them a delightfully wild feeling, and with refreshing confidence they discussed the likelihood of seeing it next morning; and to my astonishment see it we did, on the shore, soon after we started to row home.

One pleasant fall morning in 1892 I was writing in the gun-room, on the top floor of the house, from the windows of which one can see far over the Sound. Suddenly my small boy of five bustled up in great excitement to tell me that the hired-man had come back from the wood-pile pond—a muddy pool in a beech and hickory grove a few hundred yards from the house—to say that he had seen a coon and that I should come down at once with my rifle; for Davis, the colored gardener, had been complaining much about the loss of his chickens and did not know whether the malefactor was a coon or a mink. Accordingly, I picked up a rifle and trotted down to the pond holding it in one hand, while the little boy trotted after me, affectionately clasping the butt. Sure enough, in a big blasted chestnut close to the pond was the coon, asleep in a shallow hollow of the trunk, some forty feet from the ground. It was a very exposed place for a coon to lie during the day-time, but this was a bold fellow and seemed entirely undisturbed by our voices. He was altogether too near the house, or rather the chicken-coops, to be permitted to stay where he was—especially as but a short time before I had, with mistaken soft-heartedness, spared a possum I found on the place—and accordingly I raised my rifle; then I remembered for the first time that the rear sight was off, as I had taken it out for some reason; and in consequence I underwent the humiliation of firing two or three shots in vain before I got the coon. As he fell out of the tree the little boy pounced gleefully on him; fortunately he was dead, and we walked back to the house in triumph, each holding a hind leg of the quarry.

The possum spoken of above was found in a dogwood tree not more than eighty yards from the house, one afternoon when we were returning from a walk in the woods. As something had been killing the hens, I felt that it was at least under suspicion and that I ought to kill it, but a possum is such an absurd creature that I could not resist playing with it for some time; after that I felt that to kill it in cold-blood would be too much like murder, and let it go. This tender-heartedness was regarded as much misplaced both by farmer and gardener; hence the coon suffered.

A couple of years later, on a clear, cold Thanksgiving Day, we had walked off some five miles to chop out a bridle-path which had become choked with down-timber; the two elder of our little boys were with us. The sun had set long ere our return; we were walking home on a road through our own woods and were near the house. We had with us a stanch friend, a large yellow dog, which one of the children, with fine disregard for considerations of sex, had named Susan. Suddenly Susan gave tongue off in the woods to one side and we found he had treed a possum. This time I was hardhearted and the possum fell a victim; the five-year-old boy explaining to the seven-year-old that “it was the first time he had ever seen a fellow killed.”

Susan was one of many dogs whose lives were a joy and whose deaths were a real grief to the family; among them and their successors are or have been Sailor Boy, the Chesapeake Bay dog, who not only loves guns, but also fireworks and rockets, and who exercises a close and delighted supervision over every detail of each Fourth of July celebration; Alan and Jessie, the Scotch terriers; and Jack, the most loved of all, a black smooth-haired Manchester terrier. Jack lived in the house; the others outside, ever on the lookout to join the family in rambles through the woods. Jack was human in his intelligence and affection; he learned all kinds of tricks, was a high-bred gentleman, never brawled, and was a dauntless fighter. Besides the family, his especial friend, playfellow, and teacher was colored Charles, the footman at Washington. Skip, the little black-and-tan terrier that I brought back from the Colorado bear hunt, changed at once into a real little-boy’s dog. He never lets his small master out of his sight, and rides on every horse that will let him—by preference on Algonquin the sheltie, whose nerves are of iron.

The first night possum hunt in which I ever took part was at Quantico, on the Virginia side of the Potomac, some twenty miles below Washington. It was a number of years ago, and several of us were guests of a loved friend, Hallett Phillips, since dead. Although no hunter, Phillips was devoted to outdoor life. I think it was at this time that Rudyard Kipling had sent him the manuscript of “The Feet of the Young Men,” which he read aloud to us.

Quantico is an island, a quaint, delightful place, with a club-house. We started immediately after dark, going across to the mainland, accompanied by a dozen hounds, with three or four negroes to manage them and serve as axemen. Each member of the party carried a torch, as without one it was impossible to go at any speed through the woods. The dogs, of course, have to be specially trained not to follow either fox or rabbit. It was dawn before we got back, wet, muddy, and weary, carrying eleven possums. All night long we rambled through the woods and across the fields, the dogs working about us as we followed in single file. After a while some dog would strike a trail. It might take some time to puzzle it out; then the whole pack would be away, and all the men ran helter-skelter after them, plunging over logs and through swamps, and now and then taking headers in the darkness. We were never fortunate enough to strike a coon, which would have given a good run and a fight at the end of it. When the unfortunate possum was overtaken on the ground he was killed before we got up. Otherwise he was popped alive into one of the big bags carried by the axemen. Two or three times he got into a hollow log or hole and we dug or chopped him out. Generally, however, he went up a tree. It was a picturesque sight, in the flickering glare of the torches, to see the dogs leaping up around the trunk of a tree and finally to make out the possum clinging to the trunk or perched on some slender branch, his eyes shining brightly through the darkness; or to watch the muscular grace with which the darky axemen, ragged and sinewy, chopped into any tree if it had too large and smooth a trunk to climb. A possum is a queer, sluggish creature, whose brain seems to work more like that of some reptile than like a mammal’s. When one is found in a tree there is no difficulty whatever in picking it off with the naked hand. Two or three times during the night I climbed the tree myself, either going from branch to branch or swarming up some tangle of grape-vines. The possum opened his mouth as I approached and looked as menacing as he knew how; but if I pulled him by the tail he forgot everything except trying to grab with all four feet, and then I could take him by the back of the neck and lift him off—either carrying him down, held gingerly at arm’s length, or dropping him into the open mouth of a bag if I felt sufficiently sure of my aim.

In the spring of 1903, while in western Kansas, a little girl gave me a baby badger, captured by her brother, and named after him, Josiah. I took Josiah home to Sagamore Hill, where the children received him literally with open arms, while even the dogs finally came to tolerate him. He grew apace, and was a quaint and on the whole a friendly—though occasionally short-tempered—pet. He played tag with us with inexhaustible energy, looking much like a small mattress with a leg at each corner; he dug holes with marvellous rapidity; and when he grew snappish we lifted him up by the back of the neck, which rendered him harmless. He ate bread and milk, dead mice and birds, and eggs; he would take a hen’s egg in his mouth, break it, and avoid spilling any of the contents. When angered, he hissed, and at other times he made low guttural sounds. The nine-year-old boy became his especial friend. Now and then he nipped the little boy’s legs, but this never seemed to interrupt the amicable relations between the two; as the little boy normally wore neither shoes nor stockings, and his blue overalls were thin, Josiah probably found the temptation at times irresistible. If on such occasions the boy was in Josiah’s wire-fenced enclosure, he sat on a box with his legs tucked under him; if the play was taking place outside, he usually climbed into the hammock, while Josiah pranced and capered clumsily beneath, tail up and head thrown back. But Josiah never bit when picked up; although he hissed like a teakettle as the little boy carried him about, usually tightly clasped round where his waist would have been if he had had one.

At different times I have been given a fairly appalling number of animals, from known and unknown friends; in one year the list included—besides a lion, a hyena, and a zebra from the Emperor of Ethiopia—five bears, a wildcat, a coyote, two macaws, an eagle, a barn owl, and several snakes and lizards. Most of these went to the Zoo, but a few were kept by the children. Those thus kept numbered at one end of the scale gentle, trustful, pretty things, like kangaroo rats and flying squirrels; and at the other end a queer-tempered young black bear, which the children named Jonathan Edwards, partly because of certain well-marked Calvinistic tendencies in his disposition, partly out of compliment to their mother, whose ancestors included that Puritan divine. The kangaroo rats and flying squirrels slept in their pockets and blouses, went to school with them, and sometimes unexpectedly appeared at breakfast or dinner. The bear added zest to life in more ways than one. When we took him to walk, it was always with a chain and club; and when at last he went to the Zoo, the entire household breathed a sigh of relief, although I think the dogs missed him, as he had occasionally yielded them the pleasure of the chase in its strongest form.

As a steady thing, the children found rabbits and guinea pigs the most satisfactory pets. The guinea pigs usually rejoiced in the names of the local or national celebrities of the moment; at one time there were five, which were named after naval heroes and friendly ecclesiastical dignitaries—an Episcopalian Bishop, a Catholic Priest, and my own Dutch Reformed Pastor—Bishop Doane, Father O’Grady, Dr. Johnson, Fighting Bob Evans, and Admiral Dewey. Father O’Grady, by the way, proved to be of the softer sex; a fact definitely established when two of his joint owners, rushing breathless into the room, announced to a mixed company, “Oh, oh, Father O’Grady has had some children!”

Of course there are no pets like horses; and horsemanship is a test of prowess. The best among vigorous out-of-door sports should be more than pastimes. Play is good for play’s sake, within moderate limits, especially if it is athletic play; and, again within moderate limits, it is good because a healthy body helps toward healthiness of mind. But if play serves only either of these ends, it does not deserve the serious consideration which rightly attaches to play which in itself fits a man to do things worth doing; and there exists no creature much more contemptible than a man past his first youth who leads a life devoted to mere sport, without thought of the serious work of life. In a free Government the average citizen should be able to do his duty in war as well as in peace; otherwise he falls short. Cavalrymen and infantrymen, who do not need special technical knowledge, are easily developed out of men who are already soldiers in the rough, that is, who, in addition to the essential qualities of manliness and character, the qualities of resolution, daring and intelligence, which go to make up the “fighting edge,” also possess physical hardihood; who can live in the open, walk long distances, ride, shoot, and endure fatigue, hardship, and exposure. But if all these traits must be painfully acquired, then it takes a long time indeed before the man can be turned into a good soldier. Now, there is little tendency to develop these traits in our highly complex, rather over-civilized, modern industrial life, and therefore the sports which produce them serve a useful purpose. Hence, when able to afford a horse, or to practise on a rifle range, one can feel that the enjoyment is warranted by what may be called considerations of national ethics.

As with everything else, so with riding; some take to it naturally, others never can become even fairly good horsemen. All the children ride, with varying skill. While young, a Shetland pony serves; the present pony, Algonquin, a calico or pinto, being as knowing and friendly as possible. His first small owner simply adored him, treating him as a twin brother, and having implicit faith in his mental powers. On one occasion, when a naval officer of whom the children were fond came to call, in full dress, Algonquin’s master, who was much impressed by the sight, led up Algonquin to enjoy it too, and was shocked by the entire indifference with which the greedy pony persisted in eating grass. One favorite polo pony, old Diamond, long after he became a pensioner served for whichever child had just graduated from the sheltie. Next in order was a little mare named Yagenka, after the heroine of one of Sienkewicz’s blood-curdling romances of mediÆval Poland. When every rideable animal is impressed, all the children sometimes go out with their mother and me; looking much like the Cumberbatch family in Caldecott’s pictures.

Of recent years I have not been able to ride to hounds; but when opportunity has offered I have kept as saddle horses one or two hunters, so that instead of riding the road I could strike off across country; the hunter scrambling handily through rough places, and jumping an occasional fence if necessary. While in Washington this is often, except for an occasional long walk down Rock Creek or along the Virginia side of the Potomac, the only exercise I can get. Among the various horses I have owned in recent years Bleistein was the one I liked best, because of his good nature and courage. He was a fair, although in no way a remarkable, jumper. One day, May 3, 1902, I took him out to Chevy Chase and had him photographed while jumping various fences and brush hurdles; the accompanying picture is from one of these photos. Another hunter, Renown, was a much higher, but an uncertain, jumper. He was a beautiful horse, and very good-tempered, but excessively timid.

We have been able to fix a rifle range at Sagamore, though only up to 200 yards. Some of the children take to shooting naturally, others can only with difficulty be made to learn the rudiments of what they regard as a tiresome business. Many friends have shot on this range. We use only sporting rifles; my own is one of the new model Government Springfields, stocked and sighted to suit myself. For American game the modern small calibre, high power, smokeless-powder rifle, of any one among several makes, is superseding the others; although for some purposes an old 45–70 or 45–90, even with black powder, is as good as any modern weapon, and for very heavy game the calibre should be larger than that of the typical modern arm, with a heavier ball and more powder. But after all, any good modern rifle is good enough; when a certain pitch of excellence in the weapon has been attained, then the determining factor in achieving success is the quality of the man behind the gun.

My eldest boy killed his first buck just before he was fourteen, and his first moose—a big bull with horns which spread 56 inches—just before he was seventeen. Both were killed in the wilderness, in the great north woods, on trips sufficiently hard to afford some test of endurance and skill. Such a hunting trip is even more than a delightful holiday, provided the work is hard as well as enjoyable; and therefore it must be taken in the wilderness. Big private preserves may serve a useful purpose if managed with such judgment and kindliness that the good will of the neighborhood is secured; but the sport in them somehow seems to have lost its savor, even though they may be large enough to give the chance of testing a man’s woodcraft no less than his marksmanship. I have but once hunted in one of them. That was in the fall of 1902, when Senator Proctor took me into the Corbin Park game preserve in New Hampshire. The Senator is not merely a good shot; he is a good hunter, with the eye, the knowledge of the game, and the ability to take advantage of cover and walk silently, which are even more important than straight powder. He took me out alone for the afternoon, and, besides the tame buffalo, he showed me one elk and over twenty deer. We were only after the wild boar, which have flourished wonderfully. Just at dusk we saw a three-year-old boar making his way toward an old deserted orchard; and creeping up, I shot him as he munched apples under one of the trees.