A gentleman, whom I can depend on,
told me once that he climbed Bull Hill one year late in September--Bull
Hill is one of the loftiest peaks in the Highlands of the Hudson--merely
to show the prospect to a friend, and he found all the brushwood on the
summit full of fine autumn cock, not a bird having been seen for weeks
in the low woodlands at the base. They had no guns with them at the
time, and some days elapsed before he could again spare a few hours to
hunt them up; in the meantime frost came, the birds returned to their
accustomed swamps and levels, and, when he did again scale the rough
mountain, not a bird rewarded his trouble. This, if true, which I do not
doubt, would go far to prove my theory correct; but it is not easy to
arrive at absolute certainty, for if I am right, during that period
birds are to be found no where in abundance, and a man must be a
downright Audubon to be willing to go mountain-stalking--the hardest
walking in the world, by the way--purely for the sake of learning the
habits of friend Scolopax, with no hope of getting a good bag after
all."
"How late have you ever killed a cock previous to their great southern
flight?"
"Never myself beyond the fifteenth of November; but Tom Draw assures me,
and his asseveration was accidentally corroborated by a man who walked
along with him, that he killed thirty birds last year in Hell-hole,
which both of you fellows know, on the thirteenth of December.
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