to the spring was not more than 200 yards, the only land the otter had to travel for many miles. Following the stream from the spring through the pond and a small river, they could reach the Saco, going down that river to the ocean. Returning, they could come up the Saco to the Ossipee river, and follow by lake, pond and stream to the meadow. Thus passed their busy life until the hunter's bullet or the relentless trap closed it forever.

The lake on whose shore I caught the big coon has changed. Summer cottages dot its cove-indented shores, while the summer hotel is much in evidence and the naphtha launch glides over its placid waters, scaring the wild ducks, on a brief visit to their former nesting place. The meadow remains as when I saw it, the wild grasses undisturbed by the scythe of the farmer and the otters' highway clear and distinct from the pond to the spring.

Some years ago I spent my vacation on my farm in the foot hills of the Santa Cruz mountains and as the locality is ideal for hunting and fishing, I invited a brother sportsman to visit me. One day old man Smith, a neighbor, and a party of boys who were camping on his place, invited us to help them cut a bee tree. Armed with a saw, an ax and a rawhide lasso we set out, Smith being the leader of the party, as he ciaimed to have cut hundreds of bee trees without having been stung.

When we reached the tree we found the bees were in a limb about 60 feet from the ground. The diameter of the tree was such that climbing was impossible, so I volunteered to be hoisted by the lasso. This was promptly done, sailor fashion, feet first sometimes, until I landed safe on a limb 40 feet from the ground. I then discarded my shoes and left them standing on a limb, as climbing was easier without them. I found I needed some one to help me cut off the limb. The city boys would not allow themselves to be hoisted so my friend Percy volunteered to go up. The lasso was then used for hoisting the tools and one end was tied around a limb as a kind of fire escape. The limb was soon cut nearly off when Major Smith suggested tying one end of the lasso around the limb so he and the boys on the ground could lower the limb gently in order not to mash the honey. I did not think the lasso was strong enough, but Smith was confident it was, so I did as he directed. No sooner was the limb cut than the lasso snapped like a piece of cotton twine. One end flew back and struck me in the face almost knocking me out of the tree. I had hardly recovered from the shock when I saw about a million bees coming

back to where I was sitting. In about 2 minutes they made it so hot for me I commenced to look for the lasso, but it was not there. I yelled to the boys below to throw the lasso up to me, but the boys were gone. I could just see Major Smith's coat tail disappearing in the brush. I begged and yelled for someone to come back and throw the lasso, but a 4-horse team could not have pulled the bravest of them back.

Then I saw Percy lying on a limb a few feet below me with his face covered by his arms and about a thousand bees taking turns in making life miserable for him. Something desperate had to be done. I could not endure the situation any longer so I ran out on the tip of the limb Percy laid on, took one deep breath and jumped into space. 1 landed in the top of a small oak below and fortunately caught a limb. From there I soon reached the ground. Percy at once followed my example and was equally successful.

I then made for the brush where the other boys were hiding. There I had my revenge. Smith's dog went to the tree and the bees took after him. He gave one howl and ran to his master for protection. The bees promptly followed the dog and on discovering his master's hiding place they gaily attacked him also. Smith dashed through the brush, hitting first his left car, then his right, cursing the dog at every jump and coaxing him to stay away; but the dog stayed with him and the bees with both of them.

My shoes were still in the tree, but I did not care to call on the bees again. As I had no other way to get the shoes down I left them, for the bees to take revenge on, and plodded home without them, wiser but in no good humor.

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Men write about hunts they have had after moose, and how they nearly got killed while after a bear, and all that sort of thing, which makes good stories for the man who can get to the wild woods and can understand what is talked about. The town man reads those stories and is envious of the other man, wishing that he, too, could see and study nature. He can, in his own home. Of course, it will only be the little things in nature, but they are as interesting as the big things. The little things easiest to study at this time of the year are the birds. A man can get many hours of recreation and pleasure watching them.

To hear a bird in winter always makes me want to stop and hunt up the little singer. I want to get a closer acquaintance, and it always repays me even when I have to walk through 2 feet of snow. The chickadees are the most interesting little neighbors we have. Of course, they don't exactly sing, but their pleasant "stic-a-dee-dee" can be heard in almost any locality, and at almost any time of the day.

The first one I saw last winter came and feasted off a meaty bone I had nailed up in our back yard. He preferred to pull a piece of meat off the bone and fly with it to an overhanging branch. There he would place one foot on the bone and while balancing himself with the other would pick the meat to pieces. I don't know why he chose this manner of eating. Perhaps it was because he was afraid of the downy woodpecker that had been there before him. The chica-dee flew away before I had seen nearly enough of him, and he had given me so much pleasure in watching him that I resolved to keep my eyes open in the future.

The next afternoon when I took my walk I was on the lookout, and because I kept my ears open I heard a chickadee call from some trees at the end of a small lane. I crept up to see what was going on. There were 2 birds, one in each tree, and from all appearances they seemed to be carrying on a conversation. They kept calling to one another in turn with variations at the end of the call. When one of them was about to give a call I made a step forward and was seen. Both birds flew at once, seeming to see me at the same time. I hadn't learned anything much about them except to take more particular note of their plumage, but it pleased me to know that I had little winter neighbors so close. I could

get a new pleasure from my walks, and their only purpose would no longer be for exercise.

The other day when some odds and ends were thrown out I had a chance to see the chickadee at his best. Among other things thrown out were 2 or 3 small pieces of meat. Almost as soon as they touched the ground a chickadee flew down from somewhere and began picking about. He either was not hungry just then and was going to cache his food, or he was not going to let me see him eat it, for he selected the smallest of the pieces of meat and tried to fly away with it. It was too heavy for him, however, and he dropped it. Then he hopped away from it a few inches and cocked his head on one side and looked at it. He looked so much like a man estimating with his eye the weight of anything, that I laughed and frightened him away; but in a few minutes he was back again. After a few more unsuccessful attempts to carry the meat off he evidently decided that the best way was to eat what he could not carry and cache the rest.

The chickadee has many calls and notes besides the one after which he is named. When running up and down a limb looking for grubs or other food, he gives a peculiar little whistle or series of whistles with a soft undertone. I think this is his most pleasing note, and well worth hearing. I only mention this one note out of perhaps a dozen I have heard him utter. I leave the rest for the man who wants to study the little things to find out for himself.

The chickadee is not by any means the only outdoor friend we have in the winter. I have chosen him for this sketch simply because I think he is the most interesting of our winter birds. Among some of the other birds one may see and study in the winter are the English sparrow, who is interesting, for all that is said against him; the downy woodpecker, and the nuthatches, both white and red breasted. The red breasted is the rarer and smaller of the 2. I watched one yesterday while feeding. He slipped his long, pointed bill under a piece of bark and, running it along underneath for about an inch, gave it a twist and off came the bark, leaving his food exposed.

Watch the birds, make the acquaintance of each, and you will get more pleasure out of your walks than you ever before thought they possessed.

I live on the outskirts of a small town, and many of the farms adjoining have patches of woodland The wild creatures that live in the woods make their way into our gardens and shrubbery and are greeted by us according to our character. Some of us greet them with dog and gun.

One rainy Sunday I saw a large fox squirrel in the shade trees in front of the house. He was a most beautiful creature! His grace and agility made the dull day seem bright, and were quite as refreshing as a sermon. For several summers in succession a white robin slept in a shrub near the walk.

Last autumn an owl came at dusk, to watch me cover my flower beds from frost. He sat on the low branches overhead and he moved about the grounds with me as if superintending the work, turning his head to inspect it before following to another part of the garden.

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The block in front of us has dense shrubbery, and one day I saw on the fence across the street a covey of quails. The man living there keeps a bird dog and he was after the beautiful creatures. The birds crossed the street and came into our lot, hiding in the rose hedge at the foot of the lawn. went into the street and walked over the dainty trail they had left in the dust. The dog could not find the scent for several days, but one day I saw him and his owner on the next lot to ours, hunting for the lost trail. I went out and stopped the hunt. The next day I saw the birds in the garden, making themselves quite at home. There were 17 of them. Three seemed full grown and the rest younger. I was careful not to disturb them. One day I was working at my window and hearing soft sounds of rustling and whispering, I was delighted to see,

in a pear tree in front of the window, a row of beautiful brown birds craning their necks to see me work. They pushed and hustled one another along the branch until 14 little heads in a row all turned bright eyes to peer through the screen at me. I do not think I ever felt prouder of an audience in my life. Unfortunately, the man across the street had a gun as well as a dog. One day when I was away from home he came with both dog and gun. When I returned at night only a few feathers and a drop or 2 of blood remained of my beautiful, trusting visitors. Not a nice act for a neighbor! I felt almost as if he had murdered a child of mine.

There are corn and wheat fields near us. and I hear the quails calling "Bob White." Once I whistled in reply to them and enticed a large flock into my garden. The same man with the gun heard me whistle, followed the little visitors a mile and came back with 5 of them hanging by their slender legs. I felt like a guilty accomplice that time. I had allured the dear little things to their death! Now I hear the quails whistle their call, but do not answer it. "Bob White" brings a constriction of the heart. I remember the little slaughtered ones I saw in that man's hand. I said something of what I felt when he stopped to show me his spoils, but his reply was, "If I had not got them someone else would. They are made to be shot."

How do we know they were made to be shot? Perhaps they are intended to make the fields more joyful; perhaps more fruitful. I have not invited any more woodland visitors to come and be murdered. If Mr. Man with the gun wants game he may tramp the fields and woods for it; I shall not lure it within his reach.

A PLETHORA OF MOUNTAIN SHEEP.

A. T. BICKFORD.

At the Southern extremity of Lake Okanagan, B. C., reached by the Canadian Pacific railway, from the junction at Sicamous, on the main line, is a country studded with hills towering 1,500 to 2,000 feet above the lake. The steep slopes of these hills are covered with patches of rich bunch grass, and with thyme, affording excellent pasturage to numerous bands of mountain sheep, which are indigenous to that part of the world. During the summer the sheep seek the seclusion of the higher mountain ranges to the Southwest, where the ewes can raise their lambs without being molested, as few hunters ever atteinpt to invade their summer solitudes. About the middle of October the sheep begin to make their appearance on the lower hills, gradually increasing in numbers until deep snow drives them all down.

After several days of severe frost, about the middle of November, my partner and I loaded our pack horses and set out for the haunts of the sheep to secure some good heads for mounting. Arriving at our intended hunting ground, we were disagreeably surprised to find 2 parties on the field. Camping there for the night, we learned from our neighbors that they had seen plenty of sheep on the adjacent hills, and about 8 p. m. one of their party gave color to the statement by bringing in a head with a 15-inch horn, base measurement. The next morning we moved farther up the hill to undisturbed country, and made preparations for a permanent camp in a sheltered spot among some pines.

On a fine frosty morning we commenced our hunt and barely half a mile from camp we came in view of a bunch of 9 sheep, standing among some scattered pines only 40 yards from where we stood. Having a good look at the sheep, we conIcluded that there were no suitable heads among them for our purpose, so we proIceeded farther up the hill, and reached a position which afforded a view of a large extent of the hillside on either hand.

By the aid of our 8 power Lomb-Zeiss binoculars we saw a large ram feeding on a hill a mile or more distant. We decided to stalk this animal, and in order to approach we took advantage of some pine scrub running up a hogback, somewhat beyond, and above our game. Among the timbers we came on 2 ewes which ran down hill into a bunch of about 30 more,

in the center of which we recognized our ram. A general stampede followed and the big ram became hopelessly mixed with the rest, making it impossible to get a shot. We tried to head off the sheep but failed. By that time we began to feel like eating our lunch, and watched, while we ate, the movements of 2 ewes, which were slowly approaching our position. When about 200 yards from our hiding place the ewes were joined by a good sized ram, which also allowed his curiosity to lead him to investigate us; but it cost him dearly. When he was within 100 yards he was met by a 50110 bullet from my companion's rifle, which brought the ram down. The ewes, bewildered by the noise, ran within 10 yards of us, giving us an excellent chance to observe them at close quarters.

We took the head of our ram and started along the hillside toward camp. On rounding a rock bluff we saw another ram coming up a draw, or ravine, toward where we stood. We took some running shots and wounded our game, which turned and ran down hill. I left my partner to look after the head and hastened down after the ram, keeping him in sight for about half a mile, when he disappeared among some rocks. At it was late, I rejoined my companion, who in my absence, had located another bunch of 10 sheep.

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We did not turn aside after them, but 'proceeded toward camp. However, our day's sport was not over, for when some distance from camp we saw a large ram and 3 ewes slightly below us, about 300 yards distant, which offered too tempting chance to resist. Taking a careful sight on the ram with my 30-40 I fired, and broke one of the ram's front legs, sending him in the same direction as the former ram. Again leaving my partner I gave chase and followed the wounded animal into some rocky ground, startling 2 ewes, which were in hiding there. The ram went straight down hill toward camp. Following him about 300 yards farther, I got a good broadside shot at him as he stood 40 yards away behind a bunch of scrub, and he fell, shot through the heart.

It was almost dark, so leaving the carcass, I made for camp, crossing fresh sheep tracks and seeing shadowy forms vanishing into the gloom. My partner and I reached camp thoroughly tired, and well satisfied with our unusually good day's sport. The next morning we were lucky enough to kill the other wounded ram, and we put in the rest of the day securing our heads.

These heads measured 14 to 15 inches around the base of the horns and now hang on the walls of our home.

YOUNG-MAN-AFRAID-OF-THE-WOODS.

One afternoon I started with a boy about 13 years old, whom I will call George, for a small lake 8 miles from Lake George, N.. Y. George told me he had often camped out over night. After going about 3 miles George wanted to rest, SO we stopped, and ate some apples. We soon started again, however, and did not stop until we reached the top of the mountain. Then we had trouble in finding a road that went in the right direction. Not being able to find one we started through the woods, but soon had to stop and rest because George was tired again. I finally left him and my gun and walked alone to find a road. Presently I heard him call and I could tell from his tone that he was frightened, so I went back to him. I found him crying. He said he was sick and wanted to go home, but it was then 7 o'clock and nearly dark. I told him it would be impossible to go home that night and that we might better build a shelter and stay over night. After a while he became quiet and helped me build a small hut. We then ate our supper and went to bed, as we expected to be up at daybreak to start for the pond, in order to fish early in the morning, when the black bass bite, and the flies don't.

We had not been asleep long when George wakened me, saying something was trying to break in and he wanted me to shoot it quick. He was much frightened, but I convinced him the noise was made by a wood rabbit, not a bear. He evidently did not go to sleep for he woke me again and said there was something terrible in a tree near. It proved to be a large screech owl. This frightened him so he could hardly speak.

By that time it had grown cold, so I suggested that we go outside and build a fire. George was afraid to do that. I told him to stay inside and I would go out, but he did not want me to leave him. At last he came out and as there was no moon it was very dark. I had him stay by the camp while I found some wood and made a fire. I was almost frozen stiff and so was he. Every time there was a sound near us he would be frightened to death and want me to shoot off my gun to scare the animal away.

After a long night, day began to break and we started home instead of for the lake. I decided I shall never again take a boy out to stay over night.

Ralph S. Willis, Brooklyn.

SOUND LOGIC ON GAME PROTECTION. Hon. W. B. Mershon, a prominent Michigan sportsman, writing to a friend in another part of that state, says:

I am glad to learn of the interest taken in your locality in game protection. Every migratory game bird should be protected from the time it leaves the South on its way to its breeding ground. It is all right to have a reasonable season in the fall in which to shoot game birds, but the number killed should be limited and the time in which they may be killed should be made sufficiently short so that the supply would be maintained. In short, no more should be killed than can be reproduced each year. I am decidedly opposed to spring shooting and to the late winter shooting allowed in the South. If shooting is allowed all through the winter, some restriction as to the number that may be killed and the shooting should be limited to a certain 2 or 3 days in each week. The sale of game should be stopped everywhere.

Thousands of birds are wasted by being served at hotels for banquets. They are never properly cooked and rarely are they eaten, but mussed over and pushed aside. I attended a banquet given to about 400 lumbermen in Washington, in March, and a quail was served to each guest. That meant about 400 birds for that one banquet and I do not believe half a dozen of them were eaten. There are probably 2 or 3 banquets in Washington every night in the winter, so it is easy to figure out what enormous quantity of game is wasted in this way.

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The writer of that letter should be in Congress.-EDITOR.

THE OREGON COAST RANGE. The Western slope of the Coast range is strictly a dairy country, with a climate so mild that cattle can browse all winter on the dense underbrush. In this underbrush elk, deer and bear have a safe retreat from the stalking hunter, as he may pass within 5 yards of a deer and not know it. Only the keen scented dog will tell him there is game at hand, and after the dog has jumped the deer the hunter must b quick and sure with his rifle, as a few bounds will take the quarry out of sight. Should a wounded deer get 100 yards away it is lost to the hunter unless he has a welltrained dog. It is thus with all game from elk to pheasants. One rarely gets 2 good

shots with a rifle.

All our lakes, rivers and streams teem with trout. The principal rivers are the Coos, Coquille and Umpqua. There is no season of the year but what there is sport