Gulls Salvation for Salt Lake Settlers

By St. Croix.

There is no biped for which the old farmer of this country has more genuine affection than for the utterly valueless — in a marketable sense — sea gull. This rather pretty bird was quite abundant in this valley the present year — in fact, it is stated that only once before were there so many. In the fields a few miles below the city, a week or two ago, thousands of them could be seen. They followed the plowman along the furrow, and were almost as tame as chickens. Wherever there was a newly-plowed field, there you could see the gull, and as fast as a furrow was turned up the birds would fly behind the plowman and commence devouring the insects which were thus exposed to sight. They seemed perfectly fearless. And they have good reason to be fearless here, for the farmer looks upon them as his friend, and they seem to understand fully that he holds them in that light. They fly all about him, within two or three feet, and while perhaps unwilling to submit to being caught, they will allow any other familiarity that can be practiced, for they themselves take a great many good-natured liberties. They will not touch grain, or anything that the farmer desires should remain untouched; they only eat the worms and insects which are injurious to the soil and to crops. Years ago a law was passed making it an offense to kill one of these birds. The law is probably yet on the statute books, but is literally a dead letter, because there has been no occasion to call the law into life. A farmer — in fact any person acquainted with the habits of the sea gull — would almost think of wantonly killing one of his own chickens, as of intentionally harming one of these queer birds. As before stated, a law was passed by the legislature making it an offense to kill a sea gull; it was passed for this reason:

In the second year after the Pioneers had arrived here — in 1848 — the large black crickets, common to these mountainous regions, made their appearance in this and some other valleys, in clouds — figuratively speaking. They did not fly; but came hopping down the mountain sides in myriads. So vast were their numbers the mountains were black and seemed literally alive with the great, big, black, ugly things, each one about the size of a large man's thumb. It was at a time when the crops were promising; everything looked green; the future outlook seemed bright; and the heart of the sun-burned and toil-worn pioneer grew lighter s the prospects of a plentiful harvest and greater comforts grew more and more tangible with each day's growth of the healthy grain. But blacker than the clouds of coal black crickets, which came hopping down the mountain slopes in countless numbers, leaving barrenness and desolation in their wake, were the clouds of despair which filled the heart of the weary husbandman as this new and unlooked-for curse came slowly but surely towards the pride, the joy and the promise of the early settler — his fields of waving corn and grain. the foe was utterly unconquerable so far as human as human efforts were concerned; there was nothing the heartsick farmer could do but stand idly by and see the labors of the season destroyed; and with it, the death of the bright hopes which had seemed so near a realization but a few hours before. On came the foe! and as it approached, came also a vague sense of the almost illimitable distance between the farmer and a mart where could be obtained seed with which to lay the foundation for another harvest; for all he had was barely enough on which to subsist till the grain could be reaped; and as he thought of this, he thought of the long and severe winter to follow, which became terrible now, since, to the intense cold, would be added the insatiable pangs of hunger. Were it men alone who would suffer, he could bear it; but to think of the children who must yearn for bread which could not be given them; of the mother, whose babe would be folded to a breast that could afford no nourishment. It was indeed terrible! And yet, but a few hours before, what a glorious prospect was laid out! Still the foe came on. The green fields were reached, the work of destruction had commenced. Children gazed with wonder and terror; women looked with eyes full of tears, and strong men watched with hearts of despair. It was an awful hour. But lo! a wonder! The sky is filled with large birds; they fly towards the scene of the disaster, and they alight in the same fields where the crickets hold supreme sway. Then comes a change. At once the flocks of birds begin to eat the crickets. From morn till night they continue, never ceasing. When filled until they can hold no more, they vomit up the black mass, and again commence to eat the crickets. This is kept up day after day until not one of the devouring host is seen; the crops are saved; and the birds fly away. This bird was the one which could recently be seen in the fields, and which was then more abundant than at any time since the event above mentioned.

Whether the hand of an All-wise Providence was in it or not, it was not surprising nor unreasonable that the pioneers should think so; that they should return thanks to God for his succor, and that forever after the sea-gull should be looked upon by the farmer as a dear friend to be protected and encouraged. It was the sea gull that befriended the pioneer — the pioneer who suffered and endured so much, and whose suffering and endurance has made this place so that it can be inhabited, so that it furnishes a peaceful and a prosperous home to many a vile ingrate, whose thanks are shown in falsehoods and lies, in blaspheming and in blackguarding the pioneer and his offspring.

St. Croix. May 25, 1882. Sea gulls. Salt Lake Daily Herald 12(301): 10.

Gull Recollections Along Shore of Great Salt Lake

For the Editor:

During one of my voyages on our glorious inland sea the past summer, it was my good fortune to gain a little information regarding one of the most useful, and probably the least appreciated, of our feathery tribe — the sea gull.

Probably no other member of the animal creation has figured so prominently in the early history of the settlement of this valley. Many a one will recollect that momentous period in the history of the early settlers, when the grain bins were empty and the population — men women and children — were for days fighting the ever-advancing crickets, (whose numbers were so over-whelming) devouring field after field of the growing crops; and when all efforts had failed to check the advance — starvation staring the people in the face, and the stoutest heart had given up, behold their salvation. These noble birds came in countless numbers, made war upon the crickets, and followed them even into the door yards. Thus the destroyer is himself destroyed and the crops are saved, and he colonization of the Great American Desert is made possible. It is well then that we should get better acquainted with our friends, the gulls.

It is the belief of many that these birds are not natives here. But such is not the case.

It may here be asked that, while the gull appears to be anything but a shy bird, in fact pays but little regard to the presence of man, and while in quest of food will alight within a few feet of the plowman; how many are there that have seen their nesting places? I will venture to say that there are no birds more particular upon this point. They will not lay where man can molest them, but far away on some lonely beach, or sand bar, where man's foot has possibly never trod, they will establish. They build no nests, simply scratch a hole in the sand; do not conceal the eggs, but leave them exposed to the weather and the rays of the sun. Like most sea fowl they go in colonies. While sailing between Stansbury and Carrington Islands, my attention was called to constant flocks of these birds flying low over the water, general direction east and west. Their rapid flight indicated business of importance. We decided that their nesting places must be somewhere west of us and that they were going east for food to feed their young. That evening we anchored in a beautiful bay on Carrington Island. Early next morning, while the cook was wrestling with the frying-pan and coffee-pot, I determined to explore. From the south-west shore of the island, I found a low sand bar extending out into Lake; this I followed. It was quite narrow, sometimes not over three feet wide, and not over six inches above low water mark at the highest point. After following this possibly two miles, the gulls became very numerous, their discordant cries were deafening. They would swoop down close to my head as though determined to attack and expel the intruder from their sacred domain. Upon the very end of this reef was a sand knoll, which was probably at the highest part three feet above the lake, and this desolate place the birds had selected for their nesting ground. It was literally covered with nests; upon the highest point was a few dead greasewood roots; this seemed to be the favorite spot for the roots afforded some little shelter, and prevented the shifting of the sand in the wind; it was impossible to walk across this without stepping on some nest, if such they might be called. But what desolation! Not a straw, not a weed, not even a twig — nothing but the shifting sand, and the litter of the birds. This spot must be fifty miles west of the base of food supply, and probably thousands of birds have been reared on it during the past summer. What patient toiling on the part of the parent birds in finding supplies, and what millions of grasshoppers, crickets and beetles must have been consumed.

One peculiar feature of the bird is its capacity to disgorge the contents of its crop, or outer-stomach, at will. This makes his capacity as a destroyer of vermin unlimited, and keeps his appetite always good. He will eat as long as food remains in sight. It also helps him to carry food a long distance to the young, for he can gather the grasshoppers in our fields, and after carrying them for miles, disgorge at his pleasure.

I selected a nice specimen full size, but not yet able to fly, who in order to hide himself had stuck his bill in the sand and covered up his eyes and thought himself secure.

I trudged painfully back through the wet sand, just in time to catch a gale from the cook for keeping breakfast waiting and spoiling his coffee.

Royer.

Salt Lake City, Feb. 13, 1885.

Royer. February 15, 1885. The gulls. Some facts about our feathered friends. Recollections of a rover. A morning's experience along the shores of the Great Salt Lake - a sailor's story. Salt Lake Herald 15(215): 1.

Dude of the Swamp and Duck Hunting at Church Lake

Church Lake has always been a famous place for shooting. The haunt of ducks, snipe and geese as they pass up or down the Jordan in search of fresh feeding grounds. Many are the times that the usual quiet of the fields has been disturbed by those who seek this place to waste ammunition and sleep.

True, it is exciting to lie on the grassy shores or in the rushes and absorb the dew drops as they nestle in each leaf, awaiting the magical warmth of the sun to vaporize them. To hopefully listen for the whir which tells of the approach of the coveted game. To cuss the mud-hens as they noiselessly approach your hiding place and as they appear to your view, almost betray you into taking a shot. To sit and enjoy a pipe, listen to your friend on the opposite shore firing away, hear the splash or thud which awakens visions of roast duck and then relapse into a quiet mood and wonder if the horse has slipped his halter and is quietly loping up the road to the city. Some of the fellows go down and in two, or three hours return with "a few," as they call a dozen. Then some amateur goes to Evans & Spencer, hires a gun, buys some shells, and in company with a friend, starts for the lake.

To hear them talk, why it makes the horse tired to think of the load he must return with. A— and B—., the heroes of the last shooting affair at the lake, are young men well known up town, the former being a skilled shoer of horses, the latter a manipulator of calf skin, under Colonel Rowe.

On Thursday, the 20th last, these jolly hunters started for Church Lake, bent upon having a night's shooting. The grey mare stepped out briskly down the road and in an hour the party had arrived on the ground. After unhitching and tying the stepper to the fence, they cautiously approached the most likely portion of the lake and betook themselves to thinking of the glorious time they would have. The moon played hide and seek with the stars behind the clouds for a while, and then broke forth, shedding her mellow light upon the water and the meadow, and each blade of grass seemed fresh and green. Not so with the game which they sought. They flew high and were not so frequent as they wished.

The Dude of the swamps - the mud hen - was discussed at last, and the conclusion arrived at was as a Dude, the mud-hen is a complete success, being entirely useless. Thus an hour or more was spent and then their thoughts turned to the beautiful gray, which they had securely tied to a fence post. A— raised up and looked in the direction of the buggy, but no gray could he see. "The mare is loose," to B—. They walked out some distance but could not see anything of the brute. They walked on, and finally saw a white object testing the fence for the lowest portion. As the boys approached, the lowest portion was found, and over she went at a bound. The hunters broke into a run and soon had the equine corralled in the corner of the paddock. Horses, as a rule, go blind when they get loose, for they will not approach nor be approached by those whom they most willingly obey. This one was no exception to the rule, and over the fence she went. The duck shooters, now bare-headed, went tearing after her. As the first appearance of dawn came down over the valley, two bare-headed gentlemen might have been seen alternately chasing and coaxing with outstretched hands, the gray mare, which cantered up the lane and as she turned into the State road, switcher her tail and seemed to say, "Fare ye well, Brother Watkins, ah." It was farewell, for the horse came up to Jackson's gate and seemed to smile when A—'s father let her into the yard. Two hunters walked up, arriving in town about 10 o'clock. B— had the head of one snipe dangling from his belt, the cooking part having been lost in the mad chase after the mare. This was all they had to show for their night's shooting.

Gid. September 23, 1883. Duck Hunting. And Horse Following as Well. Salt Lake Herald 14(94): 2.

Mud Hens, Musical Cranes and Hunting Cranks

Mud Hens! How a Festive M.H. Slayer Would Deceive.

Musical Cranes and Hunting Cranks.

Salt Lake City, Sept. 9, '82.

Shooting at ducks often proves but a disappointment.  Four brave hunters left town late on the night of the 4th inst., for a night's sport at Church Lake. There did not exist a doubt in their minds as to the result of the shoot. After a few hours sleep the hunters of the party were up and persuasively asking the indifferent ones if they were not going out to get some ducks. Finally the whole party were starting for the marshy shores of the lake, the alleged haunt of innumerable ducks, the abiding place of the musical mud hens and the wandering crane. Not until the depths of several post holes had been explored and the efforts thereunto belonging had been partially recovered from did ye hunters awake to a sense of the many and varied responsibilities resting upon them as sportsmen. As they grey dawn came from behind the mountains and stole over the valley the darkness became less frequent, and the most unassuming stakes and bunches of grass became mallards or teal, just as the beholders imagination inclined. Some kind hand placed those stakes there little dreaming that they would prove so attractive, or cause many an old sportsman to drop to the ground and crawl noiselessly through the wet grass until within range, and then empty both barrels of his fine Parker gun into an old fence pole, thinking he has a sitting shot at a line of ducks. Any attempt to explain would have been lost on the rest of the boys, so we all took beer. The party now worked an example in grand division, and each one took such a position as he deemed best, and on the sparkling dew drops we sat down to wait for the victims. On a quiet Sabbath morning, seated upon the unmown hay, wet with penetrating dew, such pleasant thoughts come to one's mind, as he dozes a little and wakes with a start, thinking he hears the whir of flying birds, only to see a convention of mosquitoes. A feeling of restful restlessness comes into the heart and goes out to the hand, suspended for a moment preparatory to coming down upon the interesting family of acrobats having a picnic on your right cheek. Everything around is so calm, quiet and serene that any demonstration on the part of the sufferer would seem sacrilegious. Soon, however, the delightful stillness was smashed by the report of a gun, and each one was on the alert lest he should miss a good shot. Of course we all expected that some of the party had brought down a brace of ducks. In this we were disappointed. The cause of the sudden report was that one of the party had cautiously approached a bird which he claims was a duck, but which afterward proved to be a mud hen. There can be no harm in killing a mud hen, but when one mistakes a musical m.h. for a duck, and then tries to convince his friends that the m.h. is a duck, it is wrong. Not satisfied with this, he further attempts to yank the clothing of the unshorn lamb over the eyes of his friends by hiring Phil, to get one of our ducks out of the wagon, and take it to the point where he killed the bird and then bring our duck to the house in triumph. This also is wrong, teaching the youthful mind to deceive, and not only teaching but prefacing the lesson with a dollar piece.

The ducks were not out early, had perhaps been up late at Buhring's the night before. We did not kill many ducks, but the party promptly assisted in putting away several which "Ort" had killed the evening previous. After a delightful breakfast prepared by "Aunt" Margaret, some went for a nap, while others went for a ride. The out was pleasant, not only for us, but for the ducks. The sand hill cranes tuned their harps and gave vent to their appreciation in a series of dont-care-if-you-die-I-am-going to sing sort of notes, and we gracefully submitted. The next time we go out after ducks we will buy a flock of tame ducks and be sure that there are none that can fly.

Thoughtfully we left our guns to be brought up by a team, and rode into town, wet, muddy, and tired, but none the less grateful to our friends at the farm, who did so much to make our stay pleasant; and the chances are we will take another trip when the birds begin to migrate to the southward.

Gib. September 10, 1882. Salt Lake Daily Herald 13(84): 12.