The mysteries of the backwoods, or, Sketches of
the Southwest including character, scenery, and rural sports |
WIT OF THE WOODS. |
 |
 | The mysteries of the backwoods, or, Sketches of
the Southwest |  |
WIT OF THE WOODS.
Originally the wild turkey was found scattered
throughout the whole of our continent, its habits
only differing, where the peculiarity of the seasons
compelled it to provide against excessive cold or heat.
In the “clearing,” it only lives in its excellent and
degenerated descendant of the farm-yard. In the
vast prairies and forests of the “far west,” this bird
is still abundant, and makes an important addition
to the fare of wild life. It is comparatively common
on the “frontiers;” but every passing year lessens
its numbers, and as their disappearance always denotes
their death, their extermination is progressive
and certain. In Louisiana, Alabama, South Carolina,
and the southern states, there are fastnesses, in
which they will find support and protection for a
long time to come. The swamps and lowlands that
offer no present inducement to “the settler,” will
shelter them from the rifle; and in the rich productions
of the soil they will find a superabundance of
food. The same obscurity, however, that protects
them, leaves the hole of the wildcat in peace; and
this bitter enemy of the turkey wars upon it, and
makes its life one of cunning and care. Nor is its
finely flavoured meat unappreciated by other destroyers,
as the fox and weasel select the young for an
evening repast, according to their strength. The
may have broken its shell, and frightened at its own
piping note, hid instinctively away, when the Mississippi
will rise, bearing upon its surface the waters
of a thousand floods, swell within its narrow banks,
and overflow the lowlands. The young bird, unable
to fly, and too delicate to resist the influence of the
wet, sickens and dies. Upon the dryness of the
season the turkey-hunter builds his hopes of the
plentifulness of the game.
The wild turkey-hunter is distinct and peculiar.
The eccentric habits of the bird, its exceeding wildness
is sympathized with, and enjoyed only by a
class of persons, who are themselves different from
the ordinary hunter. As a general thing, turkey-hunters,
if they are of literary habits, read Izaak
Walton, and Burton's “Anatomy of Melancholy,”
and all, learned or unlearned, are enthusiastic disciples
of the rod and line. The piscator can be an
enthusiastic admirer of the opera, the wild turkey-hunter
could not be, for his taste never carries him
beyond the simple range of natural notes. Here he
excels. Place him in the forest with his pipe, and
no rough pan ever piped more wilily, or more in
harmony with the scenes around him. The same
tube modulates the note of alarm, and the dulcet
sound of love; it plays plaintively the complaining
of the female, and, in sweet chirps, calls forth the
lover from his hiding-place; it carols among the
low whisperings of the fledgling, and expresses the
mimic sounds of joy at the treasure of food that is
found discovered under the fallen leaf, or hidden
craftily, that ears, on which nature has set her stamp
of peculiar delicacy, and the instinct, true almost as
the shadow to the sunlight, are both deceived.
It is unnecessary to describe the bird, though we
never see it fairly represented except in the forest.
The high mettled racer that appears upon the course
is no more superior to the well fed cart-horse than
is the wild turkey to the tame; in fact nothing living
shows more points of health and purity of blood
than this noble bird. Its game head and clear
hazle eye, the clean firm step, the great breadth of
shoulder, and deep chest, strike the most superficial
observer. Then there is an absolute commanding
beauty about them, when they are alarmed or curious,
when they elevate themselves to their full
height, bringing their head perpendicular with their
feet, and gaze about, every feather in its place, the
foot upraised ready at an instant, to strike off at a
speed, that, as has been said of the ostrich, “scorneth
the horse and his rider.”
The wild turkey-hunter is a being of solitude.
There is no noise or boisterous mirth in his pursuit.
Even the dead leaf, as it sails in circuitous motion
to the earth, intrudes upon his caution, and alarms
the wary game, which, in its care of preservation,
flies as swiftly before the imaginary, as before the
real danger. Often, indeed, is the morning's work
destroyed by the cracking of a decayed limb under
the nimble spring of the squirrel. The deer and
timid antelope will stop to gratify curiosity, the
hare scents the air for an instant, when alarmed, before
never wonders; suspicion of danger prompts it to immediate
flight, as quickly as a reality.
The implements of the turkey-hunter are few and
simple; the “call,” generally made of the large
bone of the turkey's wing, and a sure rifle complete
the list. The double-barrel fowling-piece is used
when the game is plentiful, and requires little or no
science to hunt them, aim being taken at the head.
A turkey, wounded elsewhere than in the brain, although
a rifle ball may have passed through its
body, seems to retain the power of locomotion in
the most remarkable manner, and will, when thus
crippled, run long enough, unless pursued by a dog,
to be lost to the hunter.
Where turkeys are plentiful and but little hunted,
indifferent persons succeed in killing them; of such
hunters we shall not speak. The bird changes its
habits somewhat with its haunts, growing wilder as
it is most pursued; it may therefore be said to be the
wildest of game. Gaining in wisdom according to
the necessity, it is a different bird where it is constantly
sought for as game, from where it securely
lives in the untrodden solitude. The turkey will
therefore succeed at times in finding a home in
places comparatively “thickly settled,” and be so
seldom seen, that they are generally supposed to be
extinct. Under such circumstances, they fall victims
only to the very few hunters who may be said to
make a science of their pursuit. “I rather think,”
said a turkey-hunter, “if you want to find a thing
very cunning, you need not go to the fox or such
after the same one for three years, and never saw
him twice. I knew the critter's `yelp' as well as I
know Music's, my old dear dog; and his track was
as plain to me as the trail of a log hauled through a
dusty road. I hunted the gobbler always in the
same `range,' and about the same `scratchins,'
and he got so, at last, that when I `called,' he would
run from me, taking the opposite direction to my own
foot-tracks. Now the old rascal kept a great deal
on a ridge, at the end of which, where it lost itself
in the swamp, was a hollow cypress tree. Determined
to outwit him, I put on my shoes heels foremost,
walked leisurely down the ridge, and got into
the hollow tree, and gave a `call,' and boys,” said
the speaker exultingly, “it would have done you
good to have seen that turkey coming towards me
on a trot, the fool looking at my tracks, and thinking
I had gone the other way.”
Of all turkey-hunters, our friend W— is the
most experienced; he is a bachelor, lives upon his
own plantation, studies, philosophizes, makes fishing
tackle, and kills turkeys. With him it is a science
reduced to certainty. Place him in the woods
where turkeys are, and he is as certain of their bodies
as if they were already in his possession. He understands
the habits of the bird so well, that he will,
on his first essay, on a new hunting-ground, give
the exact character of the hunters the turkeys
have been accustomed to deal with. The most
crafty turkeys are those which W— seeks,
hemmed in by plantations, inhabiting uncultivatable
and discovery, they become, under such circumstances,
beyond any game whatever wild. They seem
incapable of being deceived, and taking every thing
strange, as possessed to them of danger, whether a
moth out of season, or a veteran hunter, they appear
to common, and even to uncommon observers,
annihilated from the country, were it not for their
footprints occasionally to be seen in the soft soil
beside the running stream, or in the light dust in
the beaten road.
A veteran gobbler, used to all the tricks of the
hunter's art, one who has had his wottles cut with
shot, against whose well-defended breast has struck
the spent ball of the rifle, one, who, although most
starved, would walk by the treasures of grain in the
“trap” and “pen,” a gobbler who will listen to
the plaintive note of the female until he has tried
its quavers, its length, its repetitions, by every rule
nature has given him, and then perhaps not answer,
except in a smothered voice for fear of being deceived.
Such a turkey will W— select to break
a lance with, and, in spite of the chances against him,
win. We, then, here have the best specimen of
wild turkey-hunting, an exhibition of skill between
the perfection of animal instinct, and the superior
intellect of man.
The turkey-hunter, armed with his “call,” starts
into the forest, he bears upon his shoulder, the
trusty rifle. He is either informed of the presence
of turkeys, and has a particular place or bird in
view, or he makes his way cautiously along the
and silent; it may be that he unexpectedly hears
a noise, sounding like distant thunder; he then
knows that he is in close proximity of the game,
and that he has disturbed it to flight. When such
is the case his work is comparatively done.
We will, for illustration, select a more difficult
hunt. The day was towards noon, and the patient
hunter has met with no “sign,” when suddenly a
slight noise is heard, not unlike, to unpractised ears,
a thousand other woodland sounds; the hunter listens,
again the sound is heard, as if a pebble was dropped
into the bosom of a little lake. It may be that woodpecker,
who, desisting from his labours, has opened
his bill to yawn—or, perchance, yonder little bird so
industriously scratching among the dead leaves of
that young holly. Again, precisely the same sound
is heard; yonder, high in the heavens, is a solitary
hawk, winging its way over the forests, its rude
scream etherealized, might come down to our ears
in just such a sound as made the turkey-hunter listen;
again the same note, now more distinct. The
quick ear of the hunter is satisfied; stealthily he entrenches
himself behind a fallen tree, a few green
twigs are placed before him, from among which
protrudes the muzzle of his rifle. Thus prepared,
he takes his “call,” and gives one solitary cluck, so
exquisitely, that it chimes in with the running brook
and the rustling leaf.
It may be, that a half a mile off, if the place is
favourable to convey sound, is feeding a “gobbler;”
prompted by his nature, as he quietly scratches up
to the sounds that first attracted the hunter's attention.
Poor bird! he is bent on filling his crop; his
feelings are listless, common place; his wings are
away; his plumage on his breast seems soiled with
rain, his wattles are contracted and pale,—look, he
starts, every feather is instantly in its place, he raises
his delicate game-looking head full four feet from
the ground, and listens; what an eye, what a stride
is suggested by that lifted foot! gradually the head
sinks; again the bright plumage grows dim, and
with a low cluck, he resumes his search for food.
The treasures of the American forest are before him;
the choice pecan-nut is neglected for that immense
“grub-worm” that rolls down the decayed stump,
too large to crawl,—now that grasshopper is nabbed,
presently a hill of ants presents itself, and the bird
leans over it, peering down the tiny hole of its entrance,
out of which are issuing the industrious insects,
with wondering curiosity. Again that cluck
greets his ear, up rises the head with lightning swiftness,
the bird starts forward a pace or two, looks
around in wonder, and answers back. No sound is
heard but the falling acorn, and it fairly echoes, as
it rattles from limb to limb, and dashes off to the
ground. The bird is uneasy, he picks pettishly,
smooths down his feathers, elevates his head slowly,
and then brings it to the earth; raises his wings as
if for flight, jumps upon the limb of a fallen tree,
looks about, settles down finally into a brownstudy,
and evidently commences thinking. An hour may
elapse, and he has resolved the matter over; his
just enough to wish to hear more; he is satisfied that
no turkey-hunter uttered the sounds that reached his
ear, for they were too few, and far between, and there
rises up in his mind some disconsolate mistress, and
he gallantly flies down from his low perch, gives
his body a swaggering motion, and utters a distinct
and prolonged cluck, significant of both surprise and
joy. On the instant the dead twigs near by crack
beneath a heavy tread, and he starts off under the
impression he is caught; but the meanderings of
some poor cow inform him of his mistake. Composing
himself, he listens, ten minutes since he challenged,
when a low cluck in the distance reaches his
ears.
Now, our gobbler is an old bird, and has escaped
with his life by a miracle several times He has
grown very cunning, indeed. He don't roost two
successive nights on the same tree, so that daylight
never exposes him to the hunter, who has hidden
himself away in the night, to catch him in the morning's
dawn. He never gobbles without running a
short distance at least, as if alarmed at his own
noise. He presumes every thing suspicious, and
dangerous naturally, and his experience has heightened
the instinct. Twice, when young, was he
coaxed within gunshot, but got clear by some fault
of the percussion caps. After that, was he fooled by
an idle school-boy, who was a kind of ventriloquist,
and would have been killed, had not the urchin's
gun been overloaded. Three times did he only
escape death by heedlessly wandering with his
“pen,” and got out by an overlooked hole in its
top. Three feathers of his last year's tail, decayed
under the weight of a spring-trap. He is, in fact,
a very “deep” bird, and will sit and plume himself,
when common hunters are about, tooting away,
but never so wisely as to deceive him twice.
They all reveal themselves by overstepping the modesty
of nature, and woo him too much: his loves are
more coy, far less intrusive. Poor bird! he does
not know that W— is spreading his snare for him,
and is even then so sure of his victim, as to be revolving
in his mind whether his goodly carcass
should be a present to a married friend, or be served
up in savoury fumes from his own bachelor, but hospitable
board.
The last cluck heard by the gobbler fairly roused
him, and he presses foward; at one time he runs
with speed, then stops as if not yet quite satisfied;
something turns him back; still he lingers only for a
moment in his course, until coming to a running
stream, where he will have to fly; the exertion seems
too much for him. Stately parading in the full sunshine,
he walks along the margin of the clear stream,
admiring his fine person as it is reflected in the sylvan
mirror, and then, like some vain lover, tosses his
head, as if to say, “let them come to me.” The
listless gait is resumed, expressive that the chase is
given up. Gaining the ascent of a low bank, that
lines the stream he has just deserted, he stops at the
foot of a young beech; in the green moss that fills
the interstices of the otherwise smooth bank is hid
it; something annoys him. Like the slipper of
Cinderella, to the imagination of the young prince,
or the glimpses of a waving ringlet, or a jewelled
hand to the glowing passions of the young heart, is
the remembrance of that sound, that now full two
hours since was first heard by our hero, and has been,
in that long time, but twice repeated. He speculates
that in the shady woods that surround
him, there must wander a mate; solitary she plucks
her food, and calls for me; the monster man, impatiently
of his prey, doles not out his music so
softly or so daintily. I am not deceived, and by my
ungallant fears, she will be won by another cluck.
How well-timed the call. The gobbler entirely off
his guard, contracts himself, opens wide his mouth,
and rolls forth, fearlessly, a volume of sound for his
answer. The stream is crossed in a flutter, the toes
scarce indent themselves in the soft ground over
which they pass. On, on they plunge, until their
owner's caution again brings them to a halt. We
could almost wish that so fine a bird might escape,
that there might be given one “call” too much, one
that grated unnaturally on the poor bird's ear; but not
so; they lead him to his doom, filling his mind with
hope and love.
To the bird there is one strange incongruity in
the “call,” never before has he gone so far with so
little success; but the note is perfect, the time most
nicely given. Again he rolls forth a loud response,
and listens, yet no answer, his progress is slow. The
cluck again greets his ear; there was a slight quaver
note he is nearing his object of pursuit, and, with
an energetic “call;” he rushes forward, his long neck
stretched, and his head moving inquiringly from
side to side. No longer going round the various
obstacles he meets with in his path, but flying over
them as if impatiently, he comes to open ground,
and stops.
Some six hundred yards from where he stands
may be seen a fallen tree, you can observe some
green brush that looks as if it grew out of the very
decayed wood; in this “brush” is hidden away the
deadly rifle, and its muzzle is protruding towards
the open ground. Behind it is the hunter, flat upon
the ground, yet so placed that the weapon is at his
shoulder. He seems to be as dead as the tree in
front of him. Could you watch him closely, you
would perceive he scarcely winks for fear of alarming
his game. The turkey, still in his exposed
situation, gobbles on the instant the hunter raises his
“call” to his lips, and gives a prolonged cluck, loud
and shrill, the first that could really be construed by
the turkey into a direct answer. The noble bird,
now certain of success, fairly dances with delight;
he starts forward, his feathers and neck amorously
playing as he advances; now he commences his
“strut;” his slender body swells, the beautifully
plumage of his breast unfolds itself, his neck curves,
drawing the head downward, the wattles grow scarlet,
while the skin that covers the head changes like
rainbow tints. The long feathers of the wings brush
the ground, the tail rises and opens into a semicircle,
relieved in its centre. On he comes, with a
hitching gait, glowing in the sunshine in purple and
gold. The siren cluck is twice repeated; he contracts
his form to the smallest dimensions; upwards
rises the head to the highest point; he stands upon
his very toes, and looks suspiciously around; fifty
yards of distance protects him from the rifle: he
even condescends to pick about. What a trial for the
expecting hunter! how does he recollect that one
breath too much has spoiled a morning's work!
The minutes wear on, and the bird again becomes
the caller; he gobbles, opens his form, and when fully
bloomed out, the enchanting cluck greets his ear;
on he comes, like the gay horse, towards the inspiring
music of the drum, or like a gallant bark beating
against the wind, gallantly but slowly.
The dark cold barrel of the rifle is now not
more silent than is its owner; the game is playing
just outside the very edge of its deadly reach; the
least mistake and it is gone. One gentle zephyr,
one falling twig, might break the charm, and make
nature revolt at the coyness apparent in the supposed
mistress, and the lover would wing his way full of
life to the woods. But on he comes, so still is every
thing that you can hear his wings as they brush the
ground, singularly plain, while the sun plays in conflicting
rays and coloured lights about his gaudily
bronzed plumage.
The woods ring in echoing circles back upon you,
the sharp report of the rifle is heard; out starts,
alarmed by the noise, a blue jay, who squalls as he
was he from his sleep. But our rare and beautiful
bird, our gallant and noble bird, our cunning
and game bird, where is he? The glittering plumage,
the gay step, the bright eye, all are gone, without
a movement of the muscles, he has fallen a headless
body to the earth.
| The mysteries of the backwoods, or, Sketches of
the Southwest | |