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Were all hunters (who have had much experience) to write a story of all the game they have killed, such a story would fill the shelves of many of our libraries, but were these same hunters to tell of all the game that had gotten away, the world itself could not hold the books necessary to contain these sad and melancholy tales; and yet, sometimes, the game that escaped, or rather, the conditions under which it escaped, will prove more profitable to the observing hunter in his future rounds than the worth of the flesh or head of the quarry which, under favorable conditions, might have been easily brought down.

Adversity and failure sometimes have as much to do with the making of a successful hunter as easy success, and the sportsman thoughtful enough to reason out why he failed instead of making himself miserable over the loss of his game, when it was apparently such an easy mark, will soon find himself rewarded, even if it be difficult to persevere under such exasperating conditions when one feels like cursing his luck and giving up such sport for all time to come. That thing we call “luck,” of course, seems to play a big part in the hunting of certain game, but it only takes a little time to demonstrate that the lucky fellow “is not in it” with the patient, plodding, observing one that learns a little from every lesson that comes, be it from success or failure.

It would be very gratifying to the writer of a turkey story if he were able to sit down and give certain fixed rules, as some of our writers so ably do in coaching wing shots or instructing the young rifleman; but the turkey hunter who has his pet theories evolved from his latest successful hunt will generally find, on his next trip, that turkeys have changed their nature and no longer elect to do as he thinks all good turkeys should do, but rather prefer to walk off and leave him wondering why plans that worked so well yesterday are such miserable failures today. Some general rules, however, are good in nearly every imaginary condition. Learn to imitate the call of the turkey, and when to call, and when not to call. Learn to conceal yourself so as not to be seen, but be sure to be able to see everything that passes within range around you. If you are trying to call the birds to you, keep them scattered, if possible; if it is a drove that you have flushed, and if in the gobbling season, keep the hens away from the wise old one; and if there are two gobblers making the woods echo with their challenge, get between them if you have to crawl.

I say these rules fit nearly all conditions, and yet so many unexpected things come up that one had as well make up his mind to keep ever on the alert and to be called upon for the exercise of his best judgment under circumstances altogether new, even tho he be a veteran of twenty years’ experience. The photograph on page 422 does not illustrate a very interesting story, as both birds were killed without any trouble. The large one weighed 21¼ lbs., and the killed very early in the gobbling season, had very little fat on his body; however, as it was a warm morning I was soon glad that he did not weigh any more. I suppose I had carried him about a mile when I heard another gobble, and hastily getting behind a log, with a few yelps I soon had two of them in easy range. It is a rule with hunters on this preserve to kill but two turkeys, so I had to wait until they separated, so as to be sure not to exceed my limit. It seemed quite unusual for these two birds to keep together as persistently as they did, but after a while they separated and I shot one in the neck, his head projecting above a log. I did not see him (because of the log) when he fell, so got excited and began firing at the other one. I sent two loads after him, but was later on glad to find that I had scored a miss. My poor marksmanship served the good purpose of saving me from the embarrassment of bringing into camp three turkeys, when my host had reminded me but a few hours before that his guests were not expected to kill more than two birds on a trip.

A short time after this my friend invited me to go with him after the old fellows again. We were in the woods very early on that morning, and it was not long before I heard the merry gobble of a big old fellow that sent many a rush of blood thru my body and I noiselessly approached his roosting tree. When I once concealed myself, and giving a few low yelps, waited for him to answer. This he gave in a tone so loud and so defiant as to startle every living thing for quite a distance around—so loud, I say, as to wake up another old fellow, about a half mile off, and start him on his way rejoicing.

Could a hunter ask for more than this—two mighty birds making the forest echo and re-echo with such glorious music; and the largest one nearly in sight and still coming! Two big birds like these just waiting to be shot! But, after all, it would not be quite so easy; there was no question that the old gobbler had made up his mind to come my way, but at the critical moment several of his acquaintance began to start up competing clucks and yelps from a nearby cane patch, and they won out in the race.

Seeing that my bird had found another music more soothing than mine, I slipped from my hiding place and was fortunately seen by the hens, but not by the gobbler. These hens flew off some distance in the woods and the music of the gobblers ceased for a while, but a few timely yelps from my caller soon had them going again, ere long a long beard was seen dangling from the breast of an old-timer as he slowly came to the call.

To lay down the caller, sit still and wait took but a few minutes of time, and then one shot was all that was needed to bring the fine old bird to bag.

The other gobbler got pretty well scared at the noise of the gun so near, and the mosquitoes being all but intolerable, soon caused me to get out of the woods. But was I not “some” turkey hunter, tho—two trips and three gobblers that would make any hunter’s heart swell with pride; and then that last yelping I had done could not be beat; it would call any turkey in the woods.

But how about the next trip, about a week later? Yes, I was there well loaded with mosquito dope this time and prepared to get the biggest one in the woods. And he was there, too, gobbling with all his might and just waiting to be killed.

This was the one I would select to have served when I should have my friends to dinner the following evening. I hurriedly decided on the number to invite, and soon had everything arranged just as I would have it.

I could but feel sorry for that turkey; he was so happy on that glorious April morning; for never did bird gobble more furiously, and it seemed that even the weather conspired with me to take his life as he gaily sent forth his challenge to all the world, unconscious of the great danger lying in his path.

The very wind seemed to realize that man had gone forth to conquer, and with becoming modesty had decided not to interfere with even so much as a gentle zephyr.

The clouds too had decided, the evening before, to hide their face from the death struggle of the helpless one, leaving only the cold pitiless stars to witness the end of my victim, and they were shining in such splendor as I had never noticed before, without any apparent sympathy or concern that I could detect in any way.

But what about the turkey all this while? Surely he was as unconcerned as the cold-hearted stars and gobbling as if he never intended to die.

To slip up within a hundred yards and hide in a fallen tree top did not consume much time. Now give a few yelps, throw off your safety and get ready to shoot.

The first yelps were fine; the old bird simply got beside himself when he caught the first low, dulcet notes of that love call; however, he did not fly direct to me as I thought he would be impelled to do, but rather chose to alight some distance off in an open glade.

I had forgotten to note that a great deal of vegetation had sprung up since I killed my last bird, and this gobbler did not seem inclined to come into any patches of bushes, but preferred to stay in the open glades.

However, I did not take much notice of his whims along these lines at the time, but now and then gave a few yelps that seemed to me to be actually irresistible.

In justice to the claims of the old fellow for gallantry I shall say he always answered my call with his most polite gobble, in an honest effort to impress me with the fact that gobblers of his age do not do like the young ones that go to the hens, but wait for the hens to come to them.

I already knew enough of turkey habits to remember that it was a part of the turkey’s etiquette for gentlemen of the old school to display such modesty, but my success with the last three I killed had almost convinced me that calling could be done so well as to start almost any old foxy grandpa on the run, in spite of all his love for the ancient customs of his fathers.

With this impression ever before me, I continued to call now and then and the turkey continued to gobble, but he would not come.

Then I began to play indifferent and wait for results; time moved on, but the gobbler did not.

In the open glade he decided to abide. The hens he had been with all the season evidently had seen me, for none came near us all this while, tho they were nesting in a field near by.

After so long a while I realized he was no nearer to me, but rather further off, and a little later a faint gobble told me that he was on the move for other parts.

I immediately started on the run to head him off, and after a chase of a half mile or more halted him in a spot where it suited him very well to stop.

This spot was another open glade, into which I dared not go, but stopped in some bushes near the edge and began again my seductive calls.

I tried to call just enough to let him know where I was, and for an hour I went thru all the agonies that a tantalizing turkey can inflict upon a poor, helpless hunter as he struts just a little nearer and gobbles just a little further and drums so loudly you are sure he is coming; in fact, you can nearly see him just beyond a certain clump of bushes; so with gun to shoulder, you wait for him to step just a little nearer, and while he is meditating upon such a step, your arm aches, your legs go to sleep, your shoulder cramps, and a half dozen well-fed, contented mosquitoes fly off your dear, patient face, and another half dozen starved ones come to take their turn.

At one time the old fellow seemed so near I was sure it was but a step between him and death; but something suddenly put him on the move again; so away he went, gobbling all the while.

I was soon up and going for him again, and after a long run located him at another favorite glade. I concealed myself quite close and began to call again, but this time with a box call that I knew to be one among ten thousand.

The calling seemed to me to be exceptionally good, and the old gobbler evidently took it for a hen. Another hour of the see-sawing game began again, for he gobbled as I have never heard a turkey do in my twenty years or more of such hunting, and I was sure I had him about worn out and ready to come.

When I was horrified to hear the unmistakable love call of a real hen.

This love call was clear and distinct, extremely soft and musical, each one of the three yelps being long, drawn out and with unusual intervals of time between them.

I need not say that the gobbling then ceased, but will say that I began calling that turkey before he flew from his roost and when he stopped his gobbling it was 8 o’clock.

I waited over an hour in the hope of reviving some of the music I had heard so lavishly poured forth all the morning, but he had gone his way, and it was nearly noon before I got another answer to my calling, and that came quite a distance from the spot I had last heard his reassuring voice.

The good old soul still had it in his heart to worry me a while longer; so now and then he would do a little gobbling to keep my interest from lagging.

But I had about come to the conclusion that my luck had gone from me, so decided I would crawl up to the edge of that glade to see, if possible, whether the producer of all that gobbling was a real turkey of flesh and blood, or some wild spirit of the forest that had no love for the charms of the gentler sex and no appreciation of the gentle quavers I had so patiently simulated all these anxious hours.

After gazing for a while at everything in that open space that might be a turkey I saw something suddenly move like the head and neck of such a fowl.

I was not sure, but interested enough to stand quite still for about a quarter of an hour (it seemed) to make out just what had moved, but being quite tired from that long crawl, and about eaten alive by mosquitoes, I decided to step forward a little to get a better view; that step was my undoing.

The old grandpa had on his specks as well as his running shoes, and it did not take me long to realize that I had really seen a live turkey instead of a bundle of fuss, and that I had better get busy or go home hungry.

The old fellow seemed to have come to the conclusion that he was not in so much danger after all, so walked slowly away, while I stopped to bring the rifle sights of my three-barrel gun on him.

Now, what do you suppose happened?

There before me stood the turkey, kindly stopping for me to shoot at him with my rifle barrel—and then I got “balled up” among the triggers of my gun and pulled the shotgun instead of the rifle trigger.

Were I inclined to continue this true story I could not do so, as there is nothing more to tell; the turkey had become tired of the fun, and I being left alone, departed for camp, which was not more than a mile off, but I had wasted so much time that I found dinner ready when I got there.

Now let me ask what did I learn from my failure to kill this turkey?

Why did not the same calling bring this bird that brought the others?

To answer this, I shall say conditions were very different. This turkey was the only one running with this drove of hens; there was no competition there and the pugnacious spirit had not robbed him of his caution. Had I been able to gobble I am sure I could have bagged him easily. Again, the season had changed the vegetation. Where there was open woods before, now I found the ground covered with vegetation about three feet high. On the first hunts the gobblers could come thru the open woods anywhere to my call, while on this occasion they would have had to wade thru this heavy undergrowth.

Under such conditions an old gobbler will keep in these open glades; he will not risk himself in all this tangled undergrowth, but remain in the open and wait for the hens to come to him. Had there been other gobblers with these hens—or had this gobbler been away from other turkeys for several days and not running regularly with hens, he might have been called thru these thick bushes, but under the conditions I found him, I believe no hen could have called him to her out of those open glades.

I made my mistake in trying to head him off, in not getting far enough ahead of him. Had I done this so as to have gotten in the middle of one of those narrow glades, with one or two yelps to attract his attention, then silence would have brought him to me.

Oftentimes you hear of old gobblers that have outwitted the patience of the country’s most successful hunters. When you come across one of this kind I am of the opinion you will get better results by learning the general direction he travels, in his efforts to gobble the hens up to him, and spend your time in getting in his road, and with little calling wait for him, than if you were such an expert caller as to fool any hunter or turkey, and depended on success by such calling regardless of the position you took. I have always believed the hunter who can gobble as well as yelp could call an old timer up for a fight when he would not come for any other cause; but I have seen only two men who could gobble and I have never seen any instrument that would imitate the sound well enough to use with any success.