|
J. A. Graves - Out of Doors - California and Oregon
While looking for a dead pigeon that fell off towards the bottom of a wooded bluff in some thick bunches
of chapparal, I heard the quick boof! boof! of the hoofs of a bounding deer. I did not see that animal. An
instant later, in rounding a heavy growth of bushes, I saw a magnificent buck grazing on the tender
growth. He stood just the fraction of a second with the young twig of the bush in his mouth, looking at
me with his great luminous eyes, and then he made a jump or two out of sight. Strange that these two
animals had not fled at the sound of our guns.
A game warden hailed us and insisted on seeing all our hunting licenses and on counting our ducks. This
privilege, under the law, we could have denied him, but we were a little proud of the birds we had, and as
we were well within the number we could have killed, we made no objection to his doing so.
As a result of its speedy run the day before, the runabout had for some little time been running on a rim.
We left its occupants, who disdained our help, putting on a new tire. After a beautiful run we again
reached the Newport place, where we lunched. The car did not appear. We hated to go away and leave
them, as we thought they might be in difficulty. We telephoned to Temecula and found they had passed
that point. About two hours after our arrival they came whirling in. They had had more tire trouble. They
took a hasty lunch, and we all started together.
We made the home run without incident. Spread out in one body our game made a most imposing
appearance. Besides the 118 ducks there were 50 jacksnipe and 68 fine large wild pigeons.
Such days make us regret that we are growing old. They rejuvenate us - make us boys again.
Boyhood Days in Early California
My boyhood days, from the time I was five until I was fifteen years of age, were spent on a ranch in
Yuba County, California. We were located on the east side of Feather River, about five miles above
Marysville. The ranch consisted of several hundred acres of high land, which, at its western terminus, fell
away about one hundred feet to the river bottom. There were a couple of hundred acres of this river
bottom land which was arable. It was exceedingly rich and productive. Still west of this land was a
well-wooded pasture, separated from the cultivated lands by a good board fence. The river bounded this
pasture on the north and west.
In the pasture were swales of damp land, literally overgrown with wild blackberry bushes. They bore
prolific crops of long, black, juicy berries, far superior to the tame berries, and they were almost entirely
free from seeds. Many a time have I temporarily bankrupted my stomach on hot blackberry roll, with
good, rich sauce.
The country fairly teemed with game. Quail and rabbit were with us all the time. Doves came by the
thousands in the early summer and departed in the fall. In winter the wild ducks and geese were more
than abundant. In the spring wild pigeons visited us in great numbers. There was one old oak tree which
was a favorite resting-place with them. Sheltered by some live oak bushes, I was always enabled to sneak
up and kill many of them out of this tree.
I began to wander with the gun when I was but a little over eight years old. The gun was a long,
double-barrel, muzzle-loading derelict. Wads were not a commercial commodity in those days. I would
put in some powder, guessing at the amount, then a wad of newspaper, and thoroughly ram it home, upon
top of this the shot, quantity also guessed at, and more paper. But it was barely shoved to the shot, never
rammed. Sad experience taught me that ramming the shot added to the kicking qualities of the firearm.
|
