The record-union., 1896-12-13

qu-urck, Qu-urck, Qu-urck qu-urck-
seven notes, the last three coming
shorter and sharper. Now. il you are
one of the rare individuals who can
make and manipulate a turkey call, take
from your pocket the well-worn hollow
bones OF a wild gobbler's wing. be still
as death, and initiate that queer invita-
ton. You will probably be conscious
that it is answered, and have some de-
licious sensations: nay, it may even
come nearer and lead you to madly
strain your eye nerves trying to see
through entirely Opaque underbrush.
But unless those turkeys are very
young and foolish, or are hens, this will
be all. An old gobbler will have thought
it all out long before he steps within
range and silently fly away, leaving you
to wonder why the answer doesn't keep
on coming.
The thoroughbred and glorious way
TO kill a turkey is to go out alone in
the mountains with your Winchester
and a half dozen cartridges and just
look for that noble old fellow. Not that
just looking will do: to make much of
a success you must listen for him, feel
him, too; and above everything else,
wait for him. Get into just the widest
and most secluded glade you can climb
to, where the only harvesters of the
chestnuts and hickory nuts are the
squirrels, where the teaberries. huckle-
berries, and wild grapes grow only for
the pheasants and turkeys; where the
wild cat screams at night, the fox
pounces on the rabbit, the black bear
hunts for bee trees, and the big horned
owl is villain in many nocturnal trag
edies Keep in the underbrush. but
look out into every open glade. Take
note OF what there is for a turkey to
eat, and see if the dry leaves are
scratched up.
Walk about mile an hour and don't
put your foot down unless you know
what kind of noise it is going to
make. Don't be sure it is a squirrel
you hear scampering over the leaves
until you see him or hear his chatter.
See everything that your eyes can take
IN and keep them looking steadily on
points in distant leaf-colored slopes, un-
I'll they see many things that did not
appear at first. Stop sometimes and
don't move anything but your eyeballs
for five full silent minutes; never
make any sudden move, consider
whether the last nights frost has fallen
on this area Of rufIled and torn-up
leaves where plainly strong toes have
Eeen laying bare the rich dark earth or
the sweet remains of the chestnut crop.
When you decide that the scratching
has been done this morning. see where
1t began and remember what ground
Lies in the direction to which it tends.
Then follow, moving more slowly and
carefully. Come to a steep mountain
side, sheering to the sycamore fringed
river; do not dare to go directly down.
Slide quickly Off on a better grade. and
then having circled over a swift breath
less half-mile, work back to where the
trail should meet the river meadow.
Take care. Drop at full length. a lit
tie cautious because of the haste: there
they are strutting forth from the un-
dergrowth by the stream after washing
down the chestnut breakfast with cold.
clear mountain water. They come up
the hill toward you, and you lie like q
stricken man with your rife following
every movement of a great black COB
pIer, father of the flock, though he is;
still 300 yards away. Motherly. mild
hammered hens, and young gobblers
are in his train, slipping dew-d drops from
the grass, picking at rag weed, chasing
a graSshopper with half-open wings or
ruffiing into make-believe combats. But
never for a moment are all off their
guard. One, two or three Of their tall
neckS are always stretched aloft, full of
eyes and ears, in statuesque suspicion.
Now the old gobbler straightens up his
head poised four feet from the ground,
trim, graceful, powerful; the sun
glinting on the dark iridescent feathers
OF his back and lower neck Now you
decide he is in range. Your thirty-eight
caliber bullet strikes his noble breast
with muff1ed thump, and the giant
wings wildly beat down the dry rag
weed while your magazine is enptied
vainly at the dark forms shooting off
toward the mountain side.
He Is a royal creature, this wild trr-
key, and you may hope to see an old
gobbler tip the scales at twenty or
twenty-five pounds. Slung over your
shoulder by the foot, his head bangles
against your heels. He is a wild mon
arch, eloquent of the woods and mount
aims and their innermost secrets, fed
only by the most delicate wild fruits
and crystal spring water, formed for
the highest beauty and strength known
to American birdkind, with a flesh
more delicious than his stall-fed cousin,
because of the gamy flavor impaired by
the Wild food. To a man who has
killed and eaten a November wild
gobbler, Thanksgiving Day has a
meaning which must be blank to other
mortals.