A Little Journey To Assateague
Thomas J. Reed, breeder of wild water fowl and one of the most interesting fellows on Chincoteague Island scratched his head when the preacher came to see him a while ago. What was wrong? Nothing at all, only he could not carry five people in his little motor boat to Assateague Island, adjacent to "the island" (Chincoteague). You see, to the people of Chincoteague there is only one Island and that is Chincoteague. To the people of Washington there is only one avenue. They call Pennsylvania Avenue "the avenue." And why should they not call Chincoteague "the island." It is the only island of its kind. Thomas J. Reed looked us over and then looked at his boy who was also eager to make the trip. There was Andrew Mourier of New York and there was Andrew Jr. and there was the preacher and there was the boy and there was Tom. Tom's eyes looked like saucers when he was told that Andrew Mourier, who is in the wholesale fish business in New York at Fulton Market, used to work side by side with Al Smith when he was handling fish. The problem was soon settled, a scow tied to the little launch and we were off. Andrew Sr. and Andrew Jr. sat on boxes and the sky pilot sat in the stern of the scow. The little launch purred like a kitten, the two tiny cylinders never passed a lick. Oyster tongers and clammers brought up delicious bivalves as we passed their boats while over yonder a huge fish hawk was perched on a dead tree. It is said that the claws of the fish hawk kill the trees, hence one never sees a fish hawk's nest in a live tree. Seagulls screamed over our heads or gathered on the mudflats and all the while we rounded "the island" on our way to Assateague.
Shortly before our arrival not far from the lighthouse we were met by the Superintendent of the Assateague Rod and Gun Club, J. W. Atkinson. The owners of the Club were lucky when they were able to lease the place in March, 1929, for it was a find. Away up North Chincoteague Island is know as the sportsman's paradise, but Assateague may well bear the same name. About twenty people live on it, including the lighthouse crew and their families. The island is owned almost in its entirety by Samuel B. Fields, of Baltimore, who inherited it from his father. There are said to be 12,000 acres in the South end and 8,000 in the North end. New members are being added to the charter members of the Club. Judging from the thoroughness in which the foundations for a Club of this sort are being laid, the members plan to have a Club that will not only give the members delightful sport, but it will also promote sport in general.
With the advice and cooperation of Thomas J. Reed, Assateague is being stocked with wild fowl of every description. Not only are different varieties of ducks and geese raised here, but even Chinese rig neck pheasants and gunning hens are bred in the wilds. We saw some of the wild little pheasants as we passed through the brush that grows in the sandy bottom between the marshes. For sport's sake the Club also plans to raise Virginia deer and rabbits. In order to make the ducks and geese feel at home, natural duck grass has been imported from North Carolina.
Wild ducks and geese feed on eel grass, widgeon grass, sago weed, wild celery and corn. Would we like to see him feed his wild fowl? We gladly consented and mounted the wagon. For miles we drove through water that covered the marsh thinly. We learned a great deal on that memorable ride. The mosquitoes were as thick as . . . well, drive through those marshes yourself and find out. The New Yorkers groaned when bite after bite reminded them of the marshes of New York State. The preacher did not say much, but thought a lot when the long-billed creatures sucked out his old blood. On and on we rode. The Club Superintendent and Tom talked duck and goose. All the while the corn was thrown out in the water for the swift flyers to eat when night falls. Did you ever know the names of all the ducks that swarm around this coast? And have you heard of the names of all the shore birds that screech and float on the air when the wind blows? We were told of black ducks, mallards, pintails, teal, green and bluewings, widgeons, canvasbacks, golden eyes, brants, redheads, and broadbills, Canada geese, snow geese, graybacks, yellow legs, robin snipes, calico backs, willetts, and . . . you name the rest, Mr. Hunter. We have exhausted our knowledge.
On and on we drove through the water. Now and then we saw scores of the wild critters flying up with wings that seemed to be motor-driven. Mr. Atkinson continued his sowing process. No wonder game birds love to return here. Their night meal is waiting for them. Last Sunday our host saw 3,000 black and mallard ducks as he went on his daily baiting trip. Later on as the hunting season approaches he uses twenty bushels of feed a day. Corn, wheat and barley are used for baiting. It is figured that it costs from two to three hundred dollars to kill one duck. Figure it out for yourself. There are over six million licensed hunters in the United States. They must have sport. To have sport one must have a license, guides, guns, ammunition, blinds, decoys, club houses, servants, boats dogs and what not. Owing to such men as belong to the Assateague Club and such managers as Atkinson, game is protected and propagated. These men are not pot hunters. They never kill out of season, they never kill more than the "bag" allowed by the State game laws and they use every means to preserve game for future generations. When clean hunting becomes the rule the great sport of "ducking" will continue for the poor man as well as for the rich man.
Suddenly we were startled by the cry of the New Yorkers: "Look at those ducks." There they were, flying up ahead of us, scores of black ducks. How gracefully these swift messengers of peace and plenty soar through the sky. Like an arrow shot from an Indian's bow they travel North or South, who knows where? It's the call of the wild that fascinates the sportsman. It's the primitive instinct in man dating back to the ages of the dim past when hunting meant protection from hunger. When hundreds of ducks fly in the shape of a phalanx, the hunter's heart beats like a trip hammer.
The sleek horse splashed on through the brackish water and we kept eyes and ears open. Further on Tom's eye saw a snapping turtle. He jumped and grabbed the squirming delicacy by the tail and put it in a sack for the wife. This scribe heard a sermon on "Take it by the tail" at one time. He might preach on it, but he would rather not practice what he preaches in this case. Every now and then we saw "blinds." When is a blind not a blind? When a hunter sees out of a blind and shoots ducks! The blind pits here used are of the parlor variety. A pit is dug, lined with boards and made water proof as far as possible. A seat is provided for the hunter. When it is cold a lantern or stove is placed in the pit. Turf and tall grass surround the affair, hiding the gunner from the keen eyes of the wild fowl.
Our ride came to an end and we returned to the comfortable club house for a delicious dinner. Hard by the house are the dog kennels, for what is sport without dogs. Beautiful bronze Chesapeake retrievers, pedigreed Springer's spaniels and blooded beagles are kept. Dog fanciers would like to have their pick. For half an hour each morning and night the dogs receive their training in the ways of the hunter. When they are sick they are shipped to the dog hospital in comfortable crates. With the help of live and artificial decoys placed in enclosures and on the water (they use 1,800 here and several hundred have been ordered besides) the wild birds are attracted. The baited water, the calling of the decoys and the sweet grasses attract them. The hunter in his blind shoots and the trained dogs carry the birds to their master. This is the life.
While looking over the decoys and various hunters' articles we saw a stuffed owl. By the manipulation of a string the owl's wings flapped. Crows and crabs as well as rats are sworn enemies of young ducks. Crows also suck the eggs. To fight the crow menace the keeper of the Club uses the stuffed owl. Seated in a blind with a string attached to the owl in his hand, he flaps the wings and behold the crows come in swarms to see the owl and if possible destroy it. Bang! several crows are relegated to limbo.
After dinner we had a ride in Atkinson's automobile on the Ocean boulevard. The beach was as hard and as smooth as a paved highway. At last we saw the sight thousands are curious to see, the wild cattle and the wild ponies, for while Chincoteague has its wild four footed animals, so has Assateague.
Assateague ranch owned by S. B. Field, is in charge of C. H. Oliphant, manager. This ranch, unquestionably the only one of its kind in the United States, is kept for the purpose of breeding horses and cattle. While the stock is entirely wild and never under shelter, it is improved by the importation of valuable stallions and bulls. At one time five hundred mules two years old were imported, also one hundred head of steers, but they would not thrive without being fed in the cold season. A strange fact is that the wild cattle and ponies do not know how to eat, that is they have never seen corn or any other grain. They are used to marsh grass and get fat on that. Other feed is alien to their taste. Mr. Oliphant may be seen at any hour during the day or at night riding on a beautiful saddle horse. He dresses after the fashion of the Western cowboy and is withal a picturesque character, a man who knows his business and hard to replace. Tow faithful collie dogs help him to round up the cattle or ponies when it is time to dip them in the cement tanks to rid them of ticks or to drive the calves into the corral before shipping.
We will not speculate about the origin of the famous horses. Is there any other place in this great country where horses and cattle run wild? A peculiar thing is that the ponies are afraid of a man on foot, but do not pay much attention to a man on horseback. Each stallion is king of his own drove of twenty or more. As men follow a leader, so these wild ponies cling to their lord. When attempts are made to steal one out of his harem, a bloody fight is the result. Thus they live and thrive the year round. When broken these horses are docile like tame horse flesh. For horse back riding they are unequaled.
Most will agree with me that Assateague Island is one of the show places of America. We prophesy that in future years it will be invaluable not only materially but as a sportsman's garden of Eden.