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This autumn was remarkable for wild pigeons. The
mast had failed elsewhere; while with us, the oak, the
beech, and all other nut trees, had never borne more abundant
crops. The woods, therefore, teemed with hogs,
squirrels, and all other nut-crackers, that, like the primitive
men of poetry, preferred this acorn-life.

How many swine were slaughtered this fall, I never
learned: but, within six weeks, our upper and lower regiments
of hunters, and simply by shooting occasionally
around their clearings, on counting, at the muster, their
squirrel scalps, found the sum more than 30,000!!

As to pigeons, the first large flocks attracted no unusual
notice: and, yet, were they mere scouting parties from the
grand army! For, within a week, that army began to
arrive, as though flocks had never before been seen! and
all the birds under the whole heavens, had been congregated
into one company! Had the leaves of our trees all
been changed into birds, the number could have been no
greater!

With a friend, I stood in an open space in the woods,
two miles east of Woodville, from 10 o'clock A. M. to 3
o'clock, P. M.—five hours—during which, with scarcely
thirty seconds intermission, a stream of pigeons, about two

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hundred yards wide, and averaging two layers, flowed
above us, and with the rapidity of thought! It was an
endless hurricane on wings, rushing innoxious, yet with
such an uproar as seemed to be prostrating the forests:
and the deep reverberating thunder, in the distant wilds,
seemed to announce the fall of their ponderous and ancient
trees! Never had I felt the awe and solemnity of sound
thus; even in beholding the wind-tempest pass over the
same wilds, bowing the submissive woods, and bearing
onward their wide tops, as if mown off with an angel's
scythe!

It will readily be thought, our hunters and sportsmen
were in all places firing away at the living torrent:
and yet, with but small loss to the pigeons. Rifles are
useless in firing at very distant and flying troops; and we
had not more than a dozen Leather-stockings in the Purchase,
able to single out and kill a bird at a time.

“Why not use shot-guns?” What a question! “Well—
but why?” Why, first and foremost, that toy could not
be found in twenty houses in the whole Purchase. Secondly,
our men could hardly be coaxed to use the thing,
both out of contempt, and, what may seem strange, out of a
little fear; for, as Ned said, “the spiteful critter kick'd so
powerful.” Beside, it is unfavourable to rifle-shooting to
acquire the dodge taught by a shot-gun. But, lastly, the
pigeons usually flew twenty yards above our trees—and
that rendered the Mantons, or any best shot-guns, as efficacious
nearly as—a quill and a slice of potato.

However, all the shot-guns and horse-pistols were sought
and fixed, so feverish became the excitement, and since there
were half-cut backwoodsmen enough, and some degenerate
natives to use them. But here was the next difficulty;
powder was plenty,—yet, who had shot? In our store
was not a pound; and it was the same almost in the others.
Still, a few pounds were ferretted from lurking places, and

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readily sold at thirty-seven and half cents for a scant
pound:—whence was proved, that a pound of lead in shotshape,
is not even as heavy as a pound of feathers!—the
air-pump to the contrary notwithstanding.

With immense persuasion, Ned and Domore consented
to shoot horse-pistols: but they both utterly refused to
fire off “store-shot.” And, like some others, they hammered
bullets into bars; which were then cut into cubes
and triangles, this being “a sort a-shootin bullets, and no
inkuridjment to store-keepers to bring out their blasted
baby shot!”

In justice to my own manhood, it must be told, I stooped
not to the shot concern till after several days' failure in
hitting with my rifle, a single bird, at 140 yards, and moving
as near like “the greased lightning” as possible: nor
then, before the following accident showed there may be
danger in firing a rifle as well as a shot-gun. Satisfied
that the rifle must be fired now by the doctrine of chances,
and not of “the sights;” and that the chance with one
bullet was a “slim chance,” it seemed better to multiply
chances, and load with two balls instead of one. And yet
the spaces between the flying birds were as plentiful as
birds; and, into these spaces the two balls chanced to go
when they parted company, or, if they stuck together, it
was, after all, but one chance. Therefore, we at last ventured
on patching the balls separately; and then, indeed,
the effect was considerably different; not, however, upon
the pigeons, but at my end of the gun: for, at the flash, I
was suddenly driven partly around, and with a tingling in
the fingers supporting the barrel, while about me, for several
yards, lay the silver mounting and ornaments of my
rifle!

“What was the matter?”

The piece had burst; and the stock was shattered up
to the spot sustained by my left hand! and, yet, had I

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received no material injury! On the same day, and from
the same cause,—(air intercepted between the patched
balls)—another rifle burst; and, although the owner remained
with its butt only in his hand, he too was unharmed
midst the scattered fragments of wood and iron. Ned's
remark about the accidents, was paradoxical, for he “Bust
his rifle, if he allowed a rifle would a-busted no how!”

After this, I descended to the shot-gun. But, while I
took my station in the opening already named, and, furnished
with two and a half theoretic pounds of different
sized shot, fired away till all was expended, I was rewarded
with only two pigeons—these being from a small
cloud that, by some accident, flew a few yards below the
tree-tops, and both killed at one fire.

One evening, shortly after sunset, Ned Stanley brought
a report into the village, that the pigeons were forming an
encampment for the night somewhere to the south-east.
And, not long after, this was confirmed by Domore, who
had surprised an out-post, nestling in the woods within a
mile and a half of Woodville.

Had a scout brought intelligence of a hostile Indian
band, our town could not have been more effectually roused
and speedily armed. And now, verily, shot-guns and shot
rose a thousand per cent.—like caterpillars' eggs in the
mulberry fever: and every where some body met any body
and every body, legs and all, full tilt in search of the article!
Turkeys, sang, coon-skins, ven's'n-hams, and even
cash (hoarded to buy land!)—were offered for guns, pistols,
and shot!—and, all round, could be seen and heard men
and boys hammering, rolling, and cutting shot! Indeed,
many intended to fire this extemporaneous shot out of—
rifles! And when hunters, or even semi-hunters, can so
demean these—the temptation and excitement must be
prodigious!

Some could not procure even rifles; and these persons,

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by the aid of Vulcanus Allheart and his boys, had old pistol
and gun barrels hastily mounted on rude stocks, to be fired
in partnership, one holding the matchlock, and the other
“touching her off” with an ignited stick or cigar.

“What was all this stir about?” Why, for a night attack
on the Grand Roosting Encampment! For, since
the Purchase became a purchase, never, in the memory of
our oldest and most respectable squatters, had such an occurrence
happened, as for the pigeons to roost so near
Woodville! Now, some had read in Ornithology, and
others had been told by people from Kentucky—oh! such
wonders about roosts and encampments! how pigeons
covered all the branches; and then perched on one another,
till the trees became living pyramids of feathers!
And how, then, all tumbled down and killed themselves,
till the ground was covered with dead pigeons, oh! as
much as two feet!—like quails round the Israelitish camp!
Yes! and the pigeons slept so sound, and were so averse to
flying in the dark, that you could walk up and gather birds
from trees like wild-plums in a prairie! Ay! and the farmers
used to camp near a roost, with droves of hogs;
which, (after the farmers had barrelled up enough birds for
winter,) were driven in every morning to be fattened on
dead pigeons!

“Did you believe all that, Mr. Carlton?”

Well—I was but mortal—beside, every body said it
would be such a most mighty powerful smart chance to
get such a heap of pigeons! I did not, indeed, go as far
as some; for I never expected to find them two feet high,
already dead, and, maybe, picked and ready for the skillet.
Beside, I wanted to go, and “who knows,” says I to myself,
“if there mightn't be some truth in the account after
all.” Hence, after five minutes cogitation, I hurried down
after Clarence and Harwood—but, mark it, reader, I was
met by those learned gentlemen, hastening up to Carlton's

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store, to consult on the same subject! For these persons,
living in the edge of the forest, knew well enough that the
pigeons were camping, from the thunderings, like the deep
and solemn mutter of an earthquake, (although the nearest
point of the camp proved nearly three miles distant,) and
hence, quite as excited and credulous as we small fry, they
were posting up town to join a party:

“Which way? Which way? neighbours!”

“Coming up to your store,—are you going down to College?”

“I was—did you hear what Domore and Ned say?”

“No—but, hark! don't you hear them?”

“What!—is that the pigeons?”

“To be sure!—Carlton, won't you go?”

“That's what I was coming down for —”

“That's your sort—agreed. Going to take a gun?”

“No—guess not: all Woodville is out with guns—pistols—
rifles—match-locks—and big keys, with touch-holes
filed in—let's only take things to carry back birds in.”

“Agreed—they say you can pick a barrel under a tree—
what shall we take?”

“Bags?”

“Yes—and a long string to tie them by the legs, and
carry back on a pole!”

“Ready now, Carlton?”

“Yes—yes—yes! let's keep on.”

“Well, stop at my house,” said Clarence, “and there
we'll fix a bag and some twine, and so lose no time.”

All was done quick as a squirrel's jump. Then guided
by the sound, we put out, regardless of a course, and unable
to discern objects dubious in the dim light of a waning
moon, and partly obscured by clouds. We were in Indian
file,—now trotting, now running, and occasionally walking,—
here stumbling over logs—there scrambling up and down
gullies—then diving into sink-holes—then ripping through

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briar swamps! The conversation was monosyllabic and
suggestive, performed with no little blowing and palpitation,
and broken abruptly by exclamation, thus:—

“Hark!”

“Ye-e-s!”

“Like—ooh!—thun-der!—hey!”

“Ve-ry! Got—bag?”

“Ooh!—yes! You—ooh!—got—string?”

“Oho! ouch!—no! he's got it—ooh!”

“What now? oho! ouch!—bad briars here!” &c. &c.

In about two miles, even this laconic dialect was difficult
to use, being lost in the roar of pigeon-thunder—mingling
with which was heard, however, the artillery, the
outcries and shouts of our gallant village troops!

“Yes! hark!—they're pelting away! Come! come
on! Get that bag ready—pull out those strings—hurraw!”

And yet it was curious—we had come to no outposts!—
had caught no drowsy sentinel pigeons on their roosts!
What on earth made the thunder so late at night? How
could pigeons, packed on one another, and with heads
comfortably stuck under wings, keep up such an awful
noise? Was it snoring? Ay! maybe it was the noise of
pigeons tumbling down, and trees breaking —

Hark! a storm rushes this way! How sudden the
moon is hid! Is that a cloud? Yes, reader, it was a
storm—but of pigeons rushing on countless wings! It was
a cloud—but of careering and feathered squadrons! The
moon was hid—and by a world of startled birds!

In vain our search that night for pigeon bearing trees!
In vain our bag and three strings! We might have filled
a bolster with feathers; but no bird living or dead burdened
either our sack or lines! The myriad hosts for miles
and miles were on their wings! and guns were flashing
away in hopeless vengeance and idle wrath! Neither

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shot nor ball could reach that world of wild fowl safe mid
the free air of Heaven! Pitiful our bag and string!—pitiful
our very selves! and all Woodville gazing from the
dark depths of the woods upward on that boundless canopy
of sounding, black, and rushing pinions!

To remain was worse than useless—it was hazardous;
at every flash of gunpowder, showers of shot foreign and
domestic fell like hail on the leaves around us—and we
fancied rifles cracked as if speeding balls, and that we heard
the peculiar whistling of their death dealing music! And
we turned to go home. But the way thither had now become
a question. That we were about three miles distant
was probable; yet after turnings and windings in the dark,
our puzzle was no wonder. Besides the moon, as if unable
to penetrate the cloud of wings, had never re-appeared;
and clouds of another kind had succeeded, whence heavy
and frequent rain-drops now pattered on us!

At last we decided our course by instinct; in which we
satisfactorily learned that human instinct is inferior to brute:
for after a trot of ten minutes, sudden torchlights crossed
our way at right angles, and a voice from one carrier thus
hailed—

“Hilloo! whar're you a travellin?”

“To Woodville—whose that?”

“To Woodville!—bust my rifle if you ain't a goin a
powerful strate course on it—”

“Why Ned, is that you?”

“That's the very feller; why Mr. Carltin if you keep
that course, you'll reach the licks about sun-up!—why
this here's the way—foller our trail.”

“Ha! ha! Ned, I thought I was a better woodsman—
keep a-head, we'll follow.”

“Well, you're puttee smart in the day-light, Mr. Carltin—
but it's raythur more hardish to strike the course of a dark
night.”

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