When a boy in my frontier home, I had netted, trapped or ensnared almost every species of game, but the wild pigeon was easily my favorite; I can hardly tell why. Perhaps it was their singular beauty, their swiftness of flight, their sudden appearance in great numbers, and their recklessness, which almost invited capture.

At that time I heard wonderful stories about wild pigeon roosts, which I could scarcely believe; but these roosts were in the wilderness, so remote from civilization that I hardly expected ever to see one. I was, therefore, overjoyed when, at the age of 19. I unexpectedly had an opportunity of visiting the great pigeon roosts in Arkansas.

I was a trooper, and we were constructing winter quarters near Brownsville, in a woodland at the edge of a beautiful prairie, which lay to the East and North of us. Flocks of pigeons flew over our camp every day, going North, and I learned from an old citizen that they roosted only 8 miles distant, a little East of North of where we were then quartered. He said that if we would go to the roost at night with a lantern and a club we could in a short time kill all the pigeons we could carry away. I explained to him the scarcity of lanterns, and he suggested that a small wire basket in which we could carry burning pine knots would answer the purpose.

I found some old telegraph wire and made 2 pear shaped baskets, with wire bales, each holding, perhaps, half a peck. As we were in a pine country, I soon gathered a supply of pine knots which made a bright light and were not easily extinguished.

The old man had also suggested that we carry a bag at the left side, suspended from the shoulders, shot-pouch fashion.

I decided to go at once, and soon found a comrade who was as anxious to visit the roost as I was. It was necessary to start in daylight to reach the roost by dark, so we had to run the picket, but were not discovered. Our road lay across 4 miles of prairie and 4 miles of timber. Near the edge of the timber on the farther side of the prairie was a solitary tree known as the Lone Tree, and at that point the roads forked. The old settler had instructed me to take the road to the right. When we reached the tree, although we were 4 miles from the roost, we heard a dull, roaring sound, as of a heavy freight train, which made our hearts beat faster and caused us to quicken the pace of our horses. Entering the woods at the farther edge of the

prairie, we soon came into a creek bottom, and after crossing the creek we began to notice feathers in the road. The roaring sound had become so loud that we could hardly hear each other speak, and soon we came to a sight not easily forgotten. Even now I can liken it to nothing so much as a mighty river of pigeons rushing to the East, half a mile in width and 50 feet in depth. The bottom of this great river passed through the tree tops, and we were afterward told that no matter from what direction a flock of pigeons arrived at the roost, they always circled around and joined this mighty flight, moving to the East with the majesty of a great army.

We could not resist the temptation to dismount and throw clubs among the pigeons. We also stood a long pole on end and by making it sway violently at the top tried to bring some of them down; but they were experts at dodging and we had poor success at this.

Our road led us to an elevated plateau where the pigeons were beginning to alight. Along this road we came to a small log dwelling. The proprietor, a typical Arkansas pioneer, stood in front of the house and to our inquiry as to how long the pigeons had been roosting there, he replied,

"You cain't prove it by me. I hey bin here 30 year, and they was here when I

come.

We made camp in a clump of bushes and decided to get supper before making an assault on the roost. Gathering dry brush and wood, we soon had our coffee, bacon and hard bread, winding up with a smoke, during which we were able to take a survey of the roost. It covered more than 1,000 acres of soil that was naturally poor, but which has been enriched by the droppings of these birds for probably 50 years that it had grown up into a wilderness of almost every variety of tree and briar and shrub; and the sheer weight of these birds had bent and twisted this tree growth into nearly every shape and direction. Under every tree of any size were mounds formed by these droppings, often 3 feet in height. This jungle was well nigh impenetrable but for the paths made by fierce looking hogs in their hunt for dead and crippled pigeons.

These birds would alight on a tree until every available space was occupied and then alight on each other until the tree became a quivering mass of pigeons. Often the breaking of a branch would cause this great mass to arise suddenly and the sound

most interesting game birds in this country. In April, when the snow begins to melt, a change is noticed in the pure white of the winter plumage and brown feathers begin to appear about the head. During the spring and early summer the brown gradually grows, and by the 1st of August a complete metamorphosis has taken place. The bird is then clad in delicately penciled shades of beautiful brown, and by the 1st of September it begins to turn white again. By November 1st it is again entirely white, with the exception of its tail, and the feet and legs are completely covered with fine fur-like feathers. The bird is then ready for the most severe Alaskan winter and seems entirely impervious to the arctic blasts.

It is interesting to note that the change from white to brown begins at the head and goes down and that the change from brown to white begins at the tail and grows upward. At no time when the change is taking place does the ptarmigan exhibit the rough and ragged appearance of moulting, which is common to most other species of birds. When one feather is about to fall from a ptarmigan another is ready to take its place, and the plumage presents a neat, dressy appearance at all times. If, when the bird is ready to nest in spring, the

AMATEUR PHOTO BY B T. BO ES.

CAUGHT ONCE MORE.

Winner of 22nd Prize in RECREATION'S 8th Annual Photo Competition.

ground is still covered with snow the eggs will be found white, but eggs deposited after the snow disappears are of a mottled brown color. Thus the scheme of protective coloration is admirably carried out in nesting as well as in plumage.

I have captured and domesticated a number of ptarmigan. They have taken kindly to their new homes and have bred well in confinement. I brought several of these birds to the States alive and as far as I know, these are the only specimens thus far imported alive.

I collected and mounted the specimens illustrated herewith, for the purpose of showing the transition from white to brown and from brown to white. The picture shows the average coloring of plumage that prevails nearly every month in the year.

The ptarmigan is the only game bird known that one can eat every day in the year without tiring of it. Perhaps the vigorous appetite developed by the strenuous Alaskan life may account for this fact. However, I should not wish anyone to think I have eaten these birds every day or that I would approve of such a course, for no one realizes more thoroughly than I the necessity of protecting our Alaskan birds and animals. A. H. Dunham, Nome, Alaska.

Said the washwoman: To be able to dance all night, and lie abed as long as I wanted to the next morning.

Said the soldier: To live peaceably all the rest of my life.

The sailor: To feel the solid earth under my feet for the rest of my days.

The artist: To paint a picture to please myself, and not the public.

The author: To have time enough to think.

The diplomat: To be myself.

The journalist: To tell the truth.

B.

The brook trout in the aquarium at Battery park did it.

As I watched them lazily flashing to and fro, their pink spots but faintly showing in the uncertain light, my spirit floated miles and miles away to a pool that lay, calm and serene, in the heart of the Northumberland hills; a pool whose clear waters were fed by a rollicking stream brawling through miles of green meadows, tangled thickets of birch and cedar and somber clusters of pine and hemlock.

I felt sorry for the imprisoned trout that afternoon in early May. They had an unhealthy look; the backs and sides of some were scarred and bruised by rough handling and transferring. I wondered if they were thinking, as I was, of a cool stream, now rippling over flat, smooth stones, now plunging down a miniature precipice, then rushing madly through tortuous windings where green alders kissed the foam-flecked

water.

The occupants of the other tanks in the aquarium received scant attention from me that afternoon. The muskalonge staring with meaningless eyes through the glass, the slimy, motionless catfish, the brilliant tribe from Bermuda waters, the sportive, water-spouting seal; all were passed with a hasty glance, for the woods and streams were calling me and I would fain be with them.

The trees in the park were clad in brilliant green, the waters sparkled in the sunlight, while overhead the skies were hung with clouds that looked like the fleecy drapery of a bride; but Broadway was pulsing with fretful life. Street hawkers cried their wares with raucous voices, trolley cars passed with clanging bells, and overhead the elevated trains rumbled incessantly. Dirt, dust and disorder were everywhere this spring afternoon. On other days I saw but the usual accompaniment of a busy street in a great city. The brook trout did it.

The evening of the next day found me at the station of a small town in Canada, and 15 minutes after my arrival I was shaking hands with Adolphe, the worthy host of the Royal and my erstwhile trusty hunting companion. On Adolphe's head the seasons of nearly 60 years rested lightly. He saw my rod in its covering, the bulge of a fly-book in my pocket, then, looking into my eager face, he understood it all. "I got t'ree dozen beauties yesterday," he said, "an' the biggest she weigh one, 2 poun'."

After a hearty meal we lighted our pipes,

and throwing our fishing gear into a waiting buckboard, started for the pond, with a small tent firmly strapped to the back of the vehicle.

Night was falling, but soon a full moon rolled above the horizon, flooding the landscape with light and bringing into bold relief the objects around us. Bars rattled as the cows were driven into pastures, ankle deep in luxuriant grass. Lights were gleaming in farmhouses by the roadside, where weary laborers were resting after a long day in the fields. A tired looking man stood on a high stand by the side of a farm gate, one hand holding a milk pail, the other the uplifted cover of a tall, shining can. He looked after us wistfully, seeing our rods and baskets in the rig.

Presently we labored up a steep hill, on the other side of which lay the pond. The moon, well up in the heavens, shone on its polished surface so that it resembled a gigantic mirror lying between the hills. Its edges were bordered with white birch and cedar, and by listening we could hear the water falling over the edge of the dam. There was a sweet, luscious smell of something undefinable in the air. The earth seemed teeming with freshness. The home of my boyhood had been a few miles from here, and I knew that in a circle, the extreme edge of which in any direction was not more than 5 miles from the hill on which we stood, there nestled 7 such ponds. The sides of the hills and the bottoms of the valleys were wet and sappy with live springs. One could feel their delicious coolness from afar. It was literally the home of the brook trout. Many a time, when a small boy, I had trudged wearily homeward beneath the weight of a mighty string of royal trout from these ponds.

Meanwhile, we descended the other side of the hill, let down a snake fence, or a portion of it, and drove through a pasture field; then, driving the length of a shady lane we penetrated a fringe of cedars and drew up at the grass bordered edge of the pool.

In a few minutes the horse was tied to a tree, the tent in position, a brisk fire sparkling in front of it, and, over the fire, a spluttering pan of bacon, whose appetizing odor, aided by the spicy, aromatic fragrance of the evergreens, made us ravenously hungry.

Have you ever fished for trout by moonlight when the shadows of logs and bushes make deep, trouty looking holes, so that

was like that of a discharge of a cannon. This was repeated every moment or 2 throughout the roost during the entire night, causing such excitement and noise as one could witness nowhere else and which it is difficult to describe. Poor creatures! After flying hundreds of miles to seek repose it was more like going to battle than to bed!

With our baskets filled with blazing pine knots, and our clubs, not over 15 inches in length and an inch in thickness, we began the assault on the feathered legions. The light so blinded their eyes that we went right among them, and from the low limbs and bushes we swiped them right and left. Sometimes on a low limb there were dozen sitting in a row, and with a long, swinging stroke at their necks we brought down several. We noticed that unless we hit their head or broke their wings, they would nearly always escape; and a hard blow on the back, knocking the bird 10 or 12 feet, almost always resulted in his flying

away.

a

Sometimes they were so tame and so unconscious of danger that we plucked them from the low limbs and bushes as you would pluck apples, and pushed them into our sacks. When exhausted from the excitement and labor of wielding our clubs,

we rested, as there was no danger of the birds' leaving until morning.

Long after midnight, exhausted but filled with pleasant excitement, and with 2 bushel bags full of pigeons, we withdrew to find our horses and get some needed rest. This was more difficult, than we had expected, for we had been so absorbed in the exciting sport that we did not bear in mind how far or in what direction we went. After reaching our little camp, I concluded to empty one of the bags of pigeons and count them. From the heap one of them quietly flew away. He had merely been stunned and had recovered.

We slept soundly, notwithstanding the great commotion around us, and were up soon after daylight. Just at sunrise I saw this feathered host arise in one vast cloud that darkened the sun, circle around the great roost, and rest a moment on the topmost branches. With the sun shining on them they resembled a great purple sea! Then, breaking up into small detachments, they began to depart for the great grain fields of the Northwest.

Soon we were on our way to camp, smoking our pipes, discussing our wonderful experience, and speculating on pigeon pie, which we had in abundance for the next few days.

Ho, ho! my lusty trout!
At last I've hauled you out!
Ten times across your track
I threw my Spanish Black!
Ten times against the wind
I threw my Jenny Lind!
Drake, Moth, and Midge did duty,
To tempt my speckled beauty;
But all, alas! in vain!

You snubbed them with disdain;
Scarce sniffed them, as you rose,
With piscatorial nose.

Your tastes were animal,
Nay, somewhat cannibal;
You fancied cleric bait,
Determined to await

My Parson's gorgeous gown,
Which soon came floating down