Volume 2 — MINOR TOPICS THE FATE OF THE PIGEONS

[The description of the vast flocks of the wild pigeons (Ectopistes migratoria), given in Mr. Ryman’s article in the October Magazine, makes the following article, from a recent number of Forest and Stream, of timely interest. The Editor remembers that in 1892, when he desired to give a game dinner in New York, he was unable to add these birds to his list, although making application to dealers as far west as Minneapolis. The description of a flight of pigeons, given by Audubon and Wilson in their works, is of remarkable value, as showing the great change wrought in a comparatively short period of time by the increase of population in the former haunts of these valuable birds.—Ed.]

Being old enough at the time to fully appreciate the grand sight of the myriads of wild pigeons as they moved back and forth through the Mississippi valley in the late seventies, it did not occur to the writer when they suddenly disappeared that it meant they had done so for all time.

As the years pass and no satisfactory explanation has been advanced, the subject fairly nettles the thoughtful lover of nature. Superficial humane zealots as usual credit the trapshooters with wanton slaughter, which is positively silly when it is remembered that a single flock, one of a hundred that passed in a day, would supply pigeons for trapshooting for several years. That disease exterminated them is not impossible, and is by far more reasonable than the trap or net explanation, twenty-five or more years of guessing having failed to locate or account for the birds.

The suggestion here offered (for what it is worth), which was brought about by a dream, may, if followed up, give a clew to the whereabouts or fate of the birds which sportsmen of the last generation will ever remember as the most graceful and skillful flyers known. The dream above mentioned need not be given in detail, nor could it be at this time; however, the writer dreamed of a pow-wow with a venerable Indian who, when asked what had become of the pigeons, stated, to quote him literally (as dreamed), that “Pigeon heap d——n fool, fly in big water [meaning the Gulf of Mexico], no come back.”

I am without any element of superstition, but this dream and Indian 354affirmation have haunted me for months. I have just returned from the Gulf coast, where, strange as it may seem, the dream has in a measure been confirmed as follows:

Having waded through a slough several times in quest of jack snipe, which were there in large numbers, and having killed and bagged many, I came to an inviting log near the edge of the swamp, which made a good resting place for a tired shooter. While seated there making up my mind whether I should quit shooting or go back after the snipe again, an old negro driving an antiquated mule attached to a creaking, ramshackle wagon with dished wheels, drove up. A few pieces of webbing, some chains for traces, and a bridle and reins of common clothesline made a perfectly harmonious outfit.

“Whoa, Jake!” commanded the old man as he rolled up to my resting place. “Good mo’nin’, sah. You all been spo’tin’ some dis mo’nin’.”

I assured him I had bagged a lot of jacks.

“I dun hear pow’ful lots o’ gun firin’ as I come along back.”

His aged and gray head was set with bright eyes, and his old face beamed with good nature. I decided to do some of the questioning, so I started in with an inquiry as to whether Jake, who stood within reach of my seat on the log, had been or was a kicker. His owner assured me he was gentle and “never was a fool mule.”

“How long have you lived here, uncle?” I inquired.

“I don’t live here; I lives up dis road ’bout fo’ miles.”

“Yes, but how long have you lived in Texas, or near the Gulf?” I asked.

“Good Lo’d! I dun always been here,” and, as if to emphasize the statement, his old face wrinkled more than usual.

“Do you remember the pigeons, years ago?” I asked.

“I shore does, sah.”

“What became of them?” I asked, recalling the dream.

“Whar you all come from to ast dis nigger such fool things! Of cou’se I knows.”

355“Well, I don’t,” I remarked; “but would like to very much.”

“You never dun heard of de black fog and the ‘norther’ on dis beach ’bout twenty-five years ago?”

“I never have; but what has that to do with it?”

“Beg your pa’don, sah, I guess you-all ain’t jokin’?”

I assured him I was not, and he began the story of the disappearance of the pigeons something like this:

“When me and Tom Clay was out huntin’ ’coons and bob cats one day, de fog came so thick it was most pitch dark in dis woods, and we was ’fraid to go to the island where Mars Judge Tobin lived, and we was workin’, and jes had to stay right dar in dat timber fo’ days and fo’ nights—coze we shore would git lost if we rowed de boat in dat fog. Well, de second mo’nin’ along come de ‘norther’ an’ dun blowed dis timber most to pieces, but not de fog. By an’ bye I hear a sound, I dun heard befo’, pigeons was a-flyin’ over, and de sound kep’ up all dat day till mos’ dark. Den dey come fallin’ thro’ de trees around us with their wings busted, and heads busted, like they was plum crazy; an’ when dey seen our fire dey fluttered into it and put it clean out. Yas, sah, dat’s God’s truf, I dun tole you all. Next mo’nin’ all dat could fly started off to’d the ocean, an’ the noise of more a-comin’ kep’ up all day till mos’ night. Dat noise was shore mighty bad, an’ we dun been ’bout scared to death when de fog lifted, an’ we started fo’ home in de boat. Den we was scared agin, fo’ de bay was mos’ covered with dead pigeons an’ blood an’ feathers, an’ mos’ every kind of a fish was dar jes helpin’ hisself, an’ so thick we could jes row de boat. We dun busted right into a nest of sharks feedin’ on pigeons, an’ one throwed his tail so hard he knocked de oar out of de boat mos’ ten feet. Next mo’nin’ all the pigeons was dun gone, excep’ on de beach was some washed up, an’ a pow’ful lot of dead fish, little ones’ s’pose got killed in de rush for pigeons. I neber did see a big flock since, an’ ain’t seen nary one fo’ yeahs now.”

“Then you think they perished in the Gulf?” I asked.

“I dun seen um, I knows I know it!” he replied.

Will some kind reader help me in this matter and interview some old sea dog who may have met the unfortunate birds further out to sea, and verify this negro’s story, and the characteristic statement that “pigeon heap fool, fly in big water, and no come back,” of the visionary Indian?

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