In autumn, when the sun goes down in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, the chill in the evening air is a warning of the all-too-soon appearance of snow, gray skies and the icy winds of winter. The pine and fir and spruce stolidly insist on retaining their dark green, but deciduous hardwoods dress up in yellows and reds and the tamarack begin to think about turning orange. It is the time of year when coveys of Ruffed Grouse scatter and men pick up shotguns and go into the woods to look for them.
Major Nathaniel Peabody was there, seated with fellow hunters around a blazing camp fire. He moved his camp stool a few inches back from the fire. It was only a slight change of position, but it was enough to alter the way the surrounding air moved. As a result, the smoke changed its direction and now blew into the eyes of the men seated on the opposite side of the fire.
Doc Carmichael was finishing his story. “So the kid says: ‘You’re not going to shoot that grouse while he’s running on the ground, are you, Grandfather?’ and the old man, with the barrel of his shotgun pointing out the car window, says: ‘No, but if the little s o b ever stops I’m going to let him have it.” Laughter ensued even though the hunters in Peabody’s circle considered a man who would shoot a bird on the ground to be worse than a liberal.
Peabody pulled a branch from the fire and lit a cigar with its glowing end. “Charlie,” he said, “As long as you’re up, will you do something about this?” He rattled the ice in his empty glass. Charlie wasn’t standing but he got up from the block of wood he used as a chair and complied with the Major’s request.
The Major took the drink Charlie proffered. He thanked him, sipped, nodded his approval and commented on the doctor’s story.
“The custom of refusing to ground swat a bird has been around nearly as long as the Second Amendment,” he said. “It is my understanding that on the first Sunday of every October, one of your U P clergymen delivers a sermon entitled: ‘Thou Shalt Not Ground Swat’. He insists it is the Eleventh Commandment. I’m not too sure of that, but I am convinced it is one of the provisions contained within the Magna Carta. Nevertheless, I believe the time has come for us to consider the rejection of our own long standing practice of outlawing ground swatting.”
Reaction was immediate. Comments flew through the cool night air. “He’s gone mad.” “Surely, you jest.” “I’ve suspected it for some time. He’s senile.” “No more for him, Charlie. He’s drunk. Cut him off.”
“Be serious Major,” one of the hunters said. “The grouse have enough problems with their population cycles, thick crusted snow in the wintertime, foxes and pine martens. If we began shooting birds on the ground, there wouldn’t be many grouse left in the county.”
Peabody thought for a moment before joining in debate. “There is no evidence that hunting has been an important factor in the extinction of any bird. And don’t tell me hunters finished off the Passenger Pigeon. It was a disease that did that job. A look at the reasons for extinctions is instructive. The Great Auk, the Dodo and the Moa come to mind.
“The Dodo was not driven to extinction by hunters. It was as big as a huge turkey, but, unable to fly, it offered no wing shooting challenge to the sportsman. Moreover, it had drab plumage and its meat was tough. Women wouldn’t buy hats made with its feathers and it didn’t taste good. Sportsmen, commercial interests and hungry people had no reason to kill it. The Dodo was finished off by the animals that were introduced to the island of Mauritius by Europeans.
“The Moa,” he continued, “was a monstrously big wingless bird. It grew to a height of twelve feet. Unable to fly, wing shooting bird hunters were not involved in its extinction. I will, however, admit ground-swatters may have helped them down the road to oblivion. Presumably, the bird was good to eat. The aborigines of New Zealand, the Maoris, killed it off. Shotgunners, I hasten to point out, were not involved. For all practical purposes, the Moa was extinct before firearm carrying sportsmen appeared in New Zealand.
“The Great Auk is yet another example. It couldn’t fly and wing shooters weren’t interested in it. Sailors and business people clubbed the Great Auk into the history books sometime around 1844. It was a good supplement to the usual eighteenth and nineteenth century sailing vessel food menus. The Great Auk’s feathers and oil were valuable commercial commodities. These were the factors causing the demise of the species..
“Incidentally, in the North Atlantic, the Great Auk was called ‘penguin’. When it became extinct in that part of the world, the name was transferred to a completely unrelated bird common to the Southern Hemisphere. That penguin can’t fly. It uses its scaled wings as paddles and some of them, like that flightless New Zealand apteryx, the Kiwi, build their nests underground. A bird that can’t fly and lives underground can hardly attract the attention of a bird hunter. If the penguin ever becomes extinct, our eco-terrorist friends will have to blame the sea leopard or climatic change as the cause.”
Charlie and the others were silent. They didn’t know what to say. Only a few weeks earlier, Peabody had roundly chastised a man who proposed: “Let’s do some road hunting tomorrow.” Now, he actually seemed serious about his ground swatting suggestion
Doc Carmichael was the first to speak. “I suppose I can agree that bird hunters have never seriously contributed to the extinction of any species but all hunters are part of the universal fraternity known as ‘Sportsmen’. What possible sport can there be in opening a car window and blasting away at a bird standing motionless in the middle of the road?
“Ruffed Grouse is my favorite meal,” said another hunter, “but I don’t like it well enough to ground swat one of them.”
“Maybe you can build a box trap, bait it with seeds and catch them that way,” Charlie sarcastically muttered. “You won’t have to buy shotgun shells.”
Peabody paused and again rattled the ice cubes in his now empty glass. Charlie didn’t bother to look at him. Instead, he said. “You know where the Scotch is, Major, Get your own drink,”
Peabody showed no reaction. He merely smiled and continued his argument. “My suggestion,” he said, speaking slowly and looking at each of his companions, “was motivated solely by my universally recognized charitable nature.”
Heads snapped erect. Sounds like: “Whaaaat?” and “I told you. He’s lost it” and “Amazing” were heard. Disregarding the confusion and rising clamor, Peabody continued.
“I must express my surprise,” he said, as he tried to blow a smoke ring. The attempt was unsuccessful because he couldn’t smile and keep his lips in the form needed to blow the ring. “After witnessing your collective display of incompetence during today’s shoot, I’m surprised at your antagonism to the potential of allowing ground swatting. None of you can hit a bird in the air. I thought you’d all be pleased with a rule change that would allow you to bring home a grouse and lie about how you got it.”
Charlie again arose from his seat and began to pour out a Scotch and water for the Major while the others, realizing they had been had, shut their eyes and slowly shook their heads back and forth.