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APRIL, 1914— SEPTEMBER, 1914 



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APRIL, 1914— SEPTEMBER, 1914 

Athletics Helping the Filipino. Illustrated with photographs. 

0. Garfield Jones 585 
Back of Beyond, In. Illustrated with photographs. Stewart Edward White 

3, 131, 282, 410, 535, 662 

Ballistics of Cartridges. Part VI and VII Charles Newton, 89, 735 

Big Four in Tennis, The E. B. Dcwhurst 472 

Breast Stroke for All-round Swimming, The. Illustrated with photographs. 

John D. Brock 482 

Building a Tackle Box. Illustrated with diagrams T. Case 79 

Canoe, Camp, and Canal. Illustrated with photographs C. H. Claudy 571 

Care of Gravel Tennis Courts R. N. Hallowell 97 

Casual Cartridge Case, The C. L. Gil man 308 

Coaching a Varsity Crew Hiram Connibear 315 

Cooking the Beans in Advance 185 

Cradle of Polo, In the. Illustrated with photographs Lewis R. Freeman 486 

Dub Tennis for Tennis Dubs. Illustrated with diagrams C. II. Claudy 422 

Easier Eating in Camp George Fortiss 372 

Effective Nail, An F. E. O. 722 

Elusive Musk-ox and the Delusive Dog-rib, The. Illustrated with photo- 
graphs and maps David E. Wheeler 649 

Emergency Rations Horace Kephart 84 

Featherweight Camping in England. Illustrated with diagrams. 

Horace Kephart 715 

Fine Art of Barratry, The David A. IVasson 181 

Fins and Finis Ladd Plumley 94 

First Aid in Camp William II. Best, M. D. 570 

First Automobile Race in America, The Charles F. Carter 499 

First College Pitcher of Curves, The William G. Murdoch 121 

First Hunters, The. Illustrated with drawing by Walter King Stone and 

Phillipps Ward Walter Prichard' Eaton 148 

First Yachtsman, The. Illustrated with drawing by Walter King Stone and 

Phillipps Ward Walter Prichard Eaton 464 

Fishing the Salmon Pool, On A. B. Baylis 593 

Game Laws in 1914 759 

Gathering Bait at Night 201 

Getting Ready for the Trout Stillman Taylor 4:: 

Going Alone Horace Kephart 601 

Going Fishing with the Major C. A. Cain 178 

Golf Problems for Women Isabel Harvey Hoskins 557 

Good Grub for Short Cruises George Fortiss 633 

Grasshopper Fishing for Trout. Illustrated with photographs O. W. Smith 202 



Home with the No-see-ums, At A. L. Wooldridgc 186 

How to Build a Canvas House. Illustrated with diagrams. 

William C. Stevens 434 

How to Be Healthy in Camp. Illustrated with diagrams../. Clifford Hoffman 116 
How to Hit Things with the Rifle. Illustrated with photographs. 

Edward C. Cross man 332 

How to Overhaul Your Automobile Siillman Taylor 210 

Hunting Togs Edward C. Crossman 223 

Jenkin's Mule K. W. Baker 569 

Journeying to Babylon. Illustrated with photographs William War field 739 

Late-Season Use for the Fly Rod, A Robert S. Lemmon 689 

Learning the Game of Trap-shooting C. O. Proivsc 347 

Little Folks Along the Shore. Illustrated with photographs. 

Hamilton M. Laing 227 
Love of Sport, For. Illustrated with drawing by Walter King Stone and 

Phillipps Ward Walter Prichard Eaton 366 

Massacre on Cedar Creek, The Cidlcn A. Cain 430 

Men and Ducks and Things A. Y. MeCorquodale 674 

Moccasin Time, In Robert E. Pinkcrton 123 

Mosquito Net in Camp, The. Illustrated with diagrams A. E. Swoyer 554 

Muskrats and Muskrat Farming Edward T. Martin 626 

New Idea in Gymnastics, The Mack Whelan 243 

New Sport of Aquaplaning. The. Illustrated with photographs. 

L. Theodore Wallis 143 

New Wrinkle for the Fishing Kit, A 115 

Night Casting for Bass. Illustrated with photographs A. E. Swoyer 108 

Night Paddle, A John Matter 683 

Noted American Golfers and Courses Harry Vardon 466 

"Old Sharpnose" of Bone Valley Joseph T. Bowles 723 

Outfitting for Newfoundland Salmon A. B. Bay lis 368 

Over the Portage John Matter 597 

Packs and Packsacks. Illustrated with photographs W. Dustin White 360 

Paddling Her* Own Canoe Kathrene Gedney Pinkcrton 220 

Plea for the Small Fur-Bearers, A Edzvard T. Martin 238 

Polo — "The Greatest Game" Mack Whelan 340 

Portable Dark Room, A. Illustrated with diagrams A. E. Swoyer 345 

Relaxing Your Bamboo Rod. Illustrated with diagram Thomas J enkyns 375 

Riding the Surf at Waikiki. Illustrated with photographs hy Gurrey, 

Honolulu George Marvin 24 

Road to Betatakin, The. Illustrated with photographs John Oskison, 393, 606 

RucKSACKE, The — A Traveler's Best Friend. Illustrated with photographs. 

Harry Knowlcs 751 



Safety First Edward C. C rossman 56 

Saving All Parts of the Picture. Part I. Illustrated with diagrams. 

Warwick S. Carpenter 728 

Sensible Outfit for Amateur Hikers. Illustrated with diagrams. 

Will C. Stevens 172 

Shank's Mare in Harness Ladd Flumley 603 

Small Boring with the Smallest Bore. Illustrated with photograph. 

Edward C. Grossman 685 

Sportsmanship in "America's" Cup Races Herbert L. Stone 630 

Spying on the Tribe of Wawa. Illustrated with photographs. 

Hamilton M. Laing 13 

Squaw Wood C L. Gilman 190 

Stealing Baseball Signals Edward Lycll Fox 444 

Swimming the [deal Exercise, Illustrated with photographs. .L. dc B. Handley 710 
Swimming Stroke of the Future, The. Illustrated with photographs. 

L. de B. Handley 99 

Tarpon and the Movies. Illustrated with photographs by Julian A. Dimock. 

A. IV. Dimock 265 

Temperament in Tennis. Illustrated with photographs Mack U'hclan 521 

Three Men and a Fish C alien A. Cain 303 

Too Much OF A Good Thing Charles Askins 104 

Top-notch of Outdoor Photography, The. Illustrated with photographs. 

R. P. Holland 192 

Tourinc; in a Pelerine. Illustrated with photographs Harry Knowles 235 

Trail of the Wavies, ( )\ i hk. Illustrated with photographs.. Hamilton M . Laing 701 

Trap-Shooting on the I louse Tod 206 

Trolling for Lake Trout Still man Taylor 599 

Twenty-five Years of Big League Basebau Clark C. Griffith, 36, 164 

Uncertain Temper of Wild Animals, The Ben Burbridge 216 

Vanderbilt— A University of the New South. Illustrated with photographs. 

Henry Jay Case 320 

War Bags. Illustrated with diagrams A. W. Warwick 310 

Washington — A University of the Northwest. Illustrated with photographs. 

Henry Jay Case 448 

What About the Sharp-tail? Illustrated with photographs. Hamilton M. Laing 351 

What Became of All the Pigeons? Edward T. Martin 478 

What Can Be Done with Concentrated Foods George Fortiss 249 

What an Old Market Shooter Thinks About Game Protection. 

Edward T. Martin 59 

What Readers Think 380, 510, 639,756 

With Apache Deer-Hunters in Arizona. Illustrated with photographs. 

John Oskison, 65, 150 

Woodcraft Tips Worth Knowing Horace Kephart 207 

Wrestling with a Bull Moose Robert E. Pinkerton 63 

Youth's Encounter. Illustrated with drawing by Walter King Stone and 

Phillipps Ward Walter Prichard Eaton 624 




Blind Trail, The Kathrene Gedney and Robert E. Pinkerton 293 

Finding of Mose Bates, The Cullcn A. Cain 562 

Last Days of Jerry, The Cnllen A. Cain 677 

Other Side of the Shield, The John T. Rowland 49 

Snowshoes that Swung Wide, The. .Robert E. and Kathrene Gedney Pinkerton 547 

Trail of the Painted Woods, The Ncvil G. Henshaw 691 

Two Fish and Two Fishers William C. Harris 111 


Civilization John Matter 314 

Maps. Illustrated with photograph C. L. Gilman 534 

Open, The Charles Badger Clark, Jr. 443 

Packing. Illustrated with photograph C. L. Gilman 171 

Prairie Dog, The G. F. Rinehart 171 

Trail Song Charles Badger Clark, Jr. 120 


Canoe Rolled Gleefully Over, The Julian A. Dimock 264 

Gorge of Rock, Great Falls of Potomac 520 

He Is the Wildest of a Clan Long Known for Its Wildness. 648 

Lava Beds Near the Edge of the Pines, At the. 392 

Rope Ford of the N'Gouramani River, At the 2 

When They Begin to Rise 277 

When You Go Hunting Deer with the Arizona Apaches 130 


Some sing the praise of the sweet, shy trout 
And some of the bold, bad bass; 
And some of the salmon that leaps for the fly 
A nd some of the tarpon that dazzles the eye 
Or yet to the ouananiche pass. 

I sing the praise of the whole fish tribe, 

The cast, the lure, and the stride, 

Any kind that will chase my dull cares far away 

And give an excuse to play hookey to-day 

Is the kind of fishing I like. 

— From the Boss's Calendar. 




Illustrated with Photographs axd a Map 


/ I V HERE still remains a large section of the earth's surface where 
A the white hunter is unknown and where big game roams in 
literal thousands. The story that Mr. White tells in this and suc- 
ceeding issues is of such a region. His narrative is of a dream that 
came true — the dream that all good sportsmen have of turning back 
the clock of the ages and coming again into a world of animal life 
all new and unknowing. He and R. J. Cuninghame were the first 
white men to see this wonderful paradise of sportsmen, and they 
are the last to whom this experience can be vouchsafed, for there 
are no other such regions left anywhere in the world. They have 
written the last paragraph in this particular chapter of the Book 
of Sport. 

1 HE story that follows is 
the journal of nry second 
African expedition. Dur- 
ing the past year (1913) 
I have discovered and 
partly explored a virgin 
game field. This will never again hap- 
pen, for the region comprises the last 
possibility of such a discovery. There 
are now no more odd corners to be 
looked into; that is to say, odd corners 
of a size worthy to be considered as a 
new game country. 

That at this late stage of the world's 
history such a place still remained to 

Copyright, 1914, by Outing 

be disclosed is a very curious fact. The 
natural question that must arise in every- 
one's mind, and that must first of all 
be answered, is how this happens, for 
the prevalent belief is that English 
sportsmen have pretty well run over all 
the larger possibilities. This is a legiti- 
mate question and a legitimate wonder 
that should be answered and satisfied 
before full credence can be placed in 
so important a discovery. That un- 
known to sportsmen there still remained 
in the beginning of the year 1913 a coun- 
try as big as the celebrated hunting 
grounds of British East Africa and even 

Publishing Co. All rights reserved [3] 


better stocked with game is due, briefly, 
to three causes: 

In the first place, the district in ques- 
tion has escaped the knowledge of Eng- 
lish sportsmen because it is situated in 
a very out of the way corner of a Ger- 
man protectorate. The Englishman is 
not at home in German territory; and, 
as long as he can get sport elsewhere — 
as he has been able to do — is not inclined 
to enter it. In the second place, the 
German himself, being mainly interested 
in administrative and scientific matters, 
is rarely in any sense a sportsman. The 
usual Teuton official or settler does not 
care for shooting and exploration, and 
the occasional hunter is quite content 
with the game to be found near at home. 
He does not care to go far afield unless 
he is forced to do so. In the third place, 
this new country is protected on all 
sides by natural barriers. Along the 
northern limits, whence the English 
sportsman might venture, extend high, 
rough ranges of mountains through 
which are no known tracks. On all 
other sides are arid and nearly game- 
less wastes. Until we entered the coun- 
try there had been no especial reason 
to believe these wastes were not con- 

Why It Was Left 

Thus the people naturally given to 
adventure were discouraged from taking 
a go-look-see by a combination of nat- 
ural barriers, racial diffidence, and politi- 
cal and official red tape. Besides which 
the English had not yet come to an 
end of their own possibilities in British 
East Africa ; and the race in possession 
simply did not care enough about sport 
to go so far merely to see more animals 
than they would see nearer home. In 
other words, from the German side this 
patch on the map was much too far : 
from the British side it was practically 

With this brief but necessary explana- 
tion accomplished we can go on. It 
must be remembered that when R. J. 
Cuninghame and I first began to con- 
sider this matter there was no suspicion 
of the existence of any unexplored hunt- 
ing fields. South Africa is finished ; 

Nyassaland offers good sport, but is un- 
healthy, and the species to be obtained 
are limited in number; small open areas 
in the Congo, Uganda, the Sudan, offer 
miscellaneous shooting, but are isolated 
and remote; Rhodesia and British East 
Africa are the great game countries par 
excellence, and these, while w T onderful, 
are well known. There is no lack of 
game in these countries — indeed, it 
would be difficult even to convey a faint 
idea of its abundance to one w T ho had 
never seen it — but in a rough way they 
are all know T n, they have all been more 
or less hunted, and conditions have been 
to a greater or lesser degree modified by 
the white man and his rifle. 

Now t I think you w T ill all bear me 
out that from earliest boyhood the one 
regret that oftenest visits every true 
sportsman is that he has lived so late, 
that he has not been able to see with his 
own eyes the great game fields as we 
read about them in the days of their 
pristine abundance. It is an academic 
regret, of course. Such things are not 
lor him. Trappers' tales of when the 
deer used to be abundant on Burnt 
Creek; old men's stories of shooting 
game where the city hall now stands; 
the pages of days gone by in the book 
of years — we listen and read and sigh 
a little regretfully. 

At least that is what I had always 
thought. Then in 1910 I undertook 
rather a long journey into the game 
fields of British East Africa. There 
I found the reports not at all exag- 
gerated. The game was present in its 
hundreds, its thousands. If I had done 
what most people do — hunted for a few 
months and gone away — I should have 
felt the fulness of complete satisfaction ; 
should have carried home with me the 
realization, the wondering realization, 
that after all I had lived not too late 
for the old conditions. But I stayed. 
I became acquainted with old-timers; I 
pushed out into odd corners of the known 
country. And by deg r ees I came to see 
that most of British East Africa is a 
beaten track. Shooters are sent by the 
outfitting firms around one or the other 
of several well-known circles. The 
day's marches are planned in advance; 
the night's camps. There is plenty of 



game, and the country is wild; but the 
sportsman is in no essentially different 
conditions here than when with his guide 
he shoots his elk in Jackson's Hole or 
his deer in the Adirondacks. 

And again I heard the tales of the old- 
timers, varying little from those at home 
— "in the old days before the Sotik 
was overrun, the lions would stand for 
you" — "I remember the elephants used 
to migrate every two years from Kenia 
across the Abedares" — "before Nairobi 
was built the buffalo used to feed right 
in the open until nine o'clock." In short, 
spite of the abundance of the game ; spite 
of the excitement and danger still to be 
enjoyed with some of its more truculent 
varieties, the same wistful regret sooner 
or later was sure to come to the surface 
of thought — I wish I could have been 
here then, could have seen it all when 
the country was new. 

And then unexpectedly came just this 
experience. There still exists a land 
where the sound of a rifle is unknown ; 
as great in extent as the big game fields 
of British East Africa or South Africa 
in the eld days; swarming with un- 
touched game; healthy, and, now that 
the route and method have been worked 
out, easily accessible to a man who is 
willing to go light and work. Further- 
more, I must repeat, this is the last new 
game field of real extent. All the rest 
of the continent is well enough known. 
Therefore we have the real pleasure, not 
only in opening a new and rich country 
to the knowledge of sportsmen, but the 
added satisfaction of knowing that we 
are the last who will ever behold such 
a country for the first time. 

Where the New Land Lies 

This new game field lies in German 
East Africa, between Lake Natron and 
Lake Victoria Nyanza, and extends 
from the British boundary south for 
several hundred miles. Along the 
Anglo-German boundary runs a high, 
wide range of mountains. 

In 1911, while on an expedition with 
R. J. Cuninghame, we pushed a short 
distance into these barrier mountains 
far enough to realize their rugged beauty 
and their equally rugged difficulties, and 

to entertain a natural wonder as to 
what might lie beyond them. This idle 
speculation hardened into a genuine 
curiosity when all our inquiries among 
the native tribes elicited either abso- 
lute ignorance or the vaguest rumors 
of "some plains; some bush; very little 
water, someone says." 

When we returned to civilization we 
began to proffer inquiries, but to our 
surprise were unable to find anyone any- 
where, either in or out of official cir- 
cles, German or English, who could or 
would tell us the first thing either of 
the nature of the country, its extent, 
whether it was flat or hilly, watered or 
dry, bare or wooded ; whether it was 
thickly or thinly inhabited or whether 
there dwelt there any people at all; 
nor could we get track of anyone or 
any report of anyone who had ever been 
there. In the early days probably a 
few slavers had been in, and in more 
modern times two or three reconnoiter- 
ing German officers had marched 
through. Gradually it dawned on us 
that (from the sportsman's standpoint) 
beyond those mountains lay practically 
an undiscovered country. We resolved 
to go take a look at it. 

Mind you, we had no very high an- 
ticipations. There is plenty of waste 
desert land in Africa. The country be- 
tween Natron and Kilimanjaro — to the 
east — is arid and unproductive of much 
of anything but thorn bush; there was 
no real reason why the corresponding 
country between Natron and Victoria 
Nyanza — to the west — should be any 
different. Only that the former was 
useless was a well-known fact; while of 
the latter the uselessness was only sup- 
position. Cuninghame and I resolved 
to take a chance. We might find noth- 
ing, absolutely nothing, for our pains; 
but even that would be knowledge. 

As far as we could see, our difficulties 
could be divided into several classes. 
In the first place, we must get per- 
mission to cross the boundary between 
the English and the German protector- 
ates at a point where there is no custom 
house. This was a real difficulty, as 
those who know the usual immutability 
of German officialdom will realize. It 
took us a year to get this permission ; and 



in the process many personages, includ- 
ing Colonel Roosevelt, the German Am- 
bassador and high officials in Berlin, were 
more or less worried. Once the matter 
was carried through, however, we re- 
ceived the most courteous treatment and 
especial facilities from the German gov- 

Our second important difficulty was 
that of water. We anticipated this as 
far as we could by constructing water 
bags according to our own patterns. 

Our third great difficulty was to feed 

for our whole transport for the reason 
that, in this land of strange diseases, we 
could by no means feel certain of their 
living; and we could not take a chance 
of finding ourselves stranded. Each don- 
key would carry two loads — one hundred 
and twenty pounds — and would not re- 
quire feeding. 

For these twenty beasts Cuninghame 
had built pack saddles after the Ameri- 
can "saw buck" pattern, the first, as 
far as I am aware, to be so used in 
Central Africa. The usual native 


our men. In an explored country, or in 
a country known to be inhabited, this is 
a simple matter ; one merely purchases 
from the natives as one goes along. In 
an unknown or uninhabited region, how- 
ever, the situation is different. Each por- 
ter must receive, in addition to meat, a 
pound and a hall of grain food a day 
to keep him strong and in good health. 
That is forty-five pounds per month 
per man. 

As a porter can carry sixty pounds 
only, it can readily be seen that supplies 
must be renewed at least every month. 
To overcome this difficulty we resolved 
to use donkeys for the purpose of carry- 
ing grain food — or potio — for the men ; 
and to cut down the numbers of the men 
to the Lowest possible point. We did not 
feel justified in depending on donkeys 

method is to fasten the loads together 
and string them across the beast. On 
the level this works well enough, but up 
or down hill the loads are constantly 
slipping off. Then the donkey must be 
caught, held, and the loads hoisted 
aboard. It takes a man for every four 
donkeys, and the pace, as can be imag- 
ined, is very slow. We hoped to be able 
to train natives to pack American style; 
and trusted that by means of the special 
saddles the usual objection to donkey 
transport — viz. : its extreme slowness and 
uncertainty — would be overcome. 

Our own outfit we cut to a minimum, 
taking advantage of every expedient 
known to either of us to lighten our 
loads. Thus at the last we found our- 
selves with thirty porters and ten other 
men, twenty donkeys equipped with pack 



saddles, and twenty-five other donkeys 
rigged in the native fashion, hired to take 
their loads of grain potio over the moun- 
tains, there to leave them, and then 
immediately to return. The porters car- 
ried, beside our light tents, beds and 
seven boxes of provisions, such matters 
as trade goods, river ropes, ammunition, 
medicines, mending materials, and the 
like. The ten extra men included don- 
key men, gun-bearers and utility men in 

camp. These were all carefully picked 
men, some of whom, notably M'ganga, 
Memba Sasa, Kongoni and Al, had been 
with me before. Others were personally 
known to Cuninghame. As provisions 
we took merely the staple groceries — 
beans, rice, coffee, tea, sugar, flour, and 
some dried fruit. 

As will be seen by the journals we 
encountered many difficulties. Were it 
not that we later discovered a better 





way into the country, I should advise 
the trip only for the most ambitious and 
adventurous. Even so, I would impress 
it on my readers as emphatically as I am 
able that this is not a soft man's coun- 
try. The "adventurer" who wants to 
go out with a big caravan and all the 
luxuries should go to British East Africa. 
The man too old or fat or soft to stand 
walking under a tropical sun should stay 
away, for, owing to prevalence of tsetse, 
riding animals are impossible. The 
sport will not like it; but the sportsman 
will. This country is too dry for agri- 
culture; the tsetse will prohibit cattle 
grazing; the hard work will discourage 
the fellow who likes his shooting brought 
to his bedside. But the real out-of-doors 
man who believes that he buys fairly his 
privilege to shoot only when he has paid 
a certain price of manhood, skill and de- 
termination, who is interested in seeing 
and studying game, who loves exploring, 
who wants extra good trophies that have 
never been picked over, in whose heart 
thrills a responsive chord at the thought 
of being first, such a man should by all 
means go, and go soon, within the next 
five years. It is a big country, and much 
remains to be done. He can keep healthy, 
he can help open the game fields for the 
future brother sportsmen, and he can 
for the last time in the world's history 
be one of the small band that will see the 
real thing! 

Nevertheless it is fully appreciated 
that, to the average man with limited 
time, even a virgin game district is of 
no great general value unless it can be 
got at. The average sportsman cannot 
afford to make great expenditures of 
time, money, or energy on an ordinary 
shooting trip. The accessibility as well 
as the abundance of British East Africa 
game is what has made that country so 
famous and so frequented. It would be 
little worth your while as practical 
sportsmen to spend a great deal of time 
over descriptions of a game field so 
remote as to remain forever impossible 
except to the serious explorer, nor would 
in that case the value of discovering an 
unshot country possess other than acad- 
emic interest. 

If future safaris had to retrace our 
footsteps in this expedition, the game 

would hardly be worth the candle. 
It would take too long to get there; it 
would involve too much hard work; 
it would involve also the necessity of do- 
ing just what we did in regard to food; 
viz., carrying it in on expensive beasts 
that will surely be fly-struck and die soon 
after crossing the mountain barrier. But 
fortunately this is not necessary. We suf- 
fered only the inconveniences inseparable 
from the first penetration of a new coun- 
try. We paid for mistakes in route that 
need only be paid once. The problems of 
food, transport and water still remain; 
but we have worked out a solution of 
them that makes the country practicable 
to the ordinary sportsmen. 

At the close of these articles details 
will be given. In the meantime, speak- 
ing broadly, the scheme is to go in where 
we came out, viz., by the lake. The 
route would be to Victoria Nyanza by 
rail through British territory; south by 
boat to Musoma or Mwanza, and thence 
eastward on foot. The scheme at present 
involves considerable prearrangement and 
some plans, but no excessive amount of 
time. Two days to the lake by rail, 
two days by boat, and a ten days' march 
will place one at the edge of the new dis- 
trict. You are among game, however, 
at the end of the second day's march. 
In other words, a fortnight all told — 
surely a small enough toll to pay for get- 
ting into fresh fields. 

I am convinced that these are the hunt- 
ing fields of the future, that they will 
be as extensively visited ten years from 
now as British East Africa is at pres- 
ent. British East Africa is still a won- 
derful hunting field; but it is passing its 
prime. The shooting by sportsmen 
would never much diminish the game ; 
but the settler is occupying the country, 
and game and settlers cannot live to- 
gether. I can see a great difference even 
in three years. In time the game will be 
killed or driven far back — game in great 
numbers — and even now, abundant as 
the animals still are, it is difficult to get 
really fine heads. They have been well 
picked over. 

This particular part of the German 
country, on the other hand, as said be- 
fore, will never be occupied. It is not 
fitted for agriculture, the rainfall is 



slight, water is scarce; it is not adapted 
to grazing, for tsetse is everywhere. The 
game has it all, and will continue to have 
it all. Indiscriminate shooting over a 
great many years and by a great many 
people would hardly affect this marvelous 
abundance over so great an area; but, 
of course, indiscriminate shooting in these 
modern days of game laws is impossible. 
The supply is practically unlimited, and 
is at present threatened with no influ- 
ence likely to diminish it. 

For the next five or ten years this 
country will, in addition, possess for the 
really enterprising sportsman the inter- 
est of exploration. Our brief expedition 
determined merely the existence of the 
game country, and, roughly, its east-to- 
west extent. We were too busily en- 
gaged in getting on, and in finding our 
way, to do as thorough a job as would 
have been desirable. Even along the 
route we followed months could be spent 
finding and mapping water holes, deter- 
mining the habitat of the animals, search- 

ing out the little patches where extreme- 
ly local beasts might dwell, casting out 
on either side one, two, three days' 
marches to fill in gaps of knowledge. 

To the south of us lay a great area 
we had no opportunity even of approach- 
ing, and concerning which we heard fas- 
cinating accounts — for example, the Se- 
rengetti, a grass plain many days' jour- 
ney across, with a lake in the middle, 
swarming with game and lions; the 
Ssale, a series of bench plateaux said to 
be stocked with black-maned lions be- 
side the other game; some big volcanoes 
(some of w T hich we spied forty miles 
away) with forests and meadows and 
elephants in the craters; and so on. All 
this remains to be looked over and re- 
ported on. As the water holes are found, 
the possibilities of reaching out farther 
will be extended. We have really only 
made the roughest of rough sketches. 
The many sportsmen w T ho will follow 
us must fill in the picture. 

( To be continued) 

The next instalment of Mr. White's narrative carries 
his party through the earlier stages of their trip up 
into the hills that lie between the much hunted plains 
of British East Africa and the land of their desire. 




Photographs by the Author 

A Tale of Days Spent in Posing the Wild Geese of Manitoba Be- 
fore the Watchful Camera 

i HE wawas had arrived; 
there could be no doubt 
of it. Fully two weeks 
previously the speckled 
fellows (White-fronted) 
had come tittering down 
through the night, as is their custom; 
the past three days the grays — Hutchins, 
Cacklers, and White-cheeks, by their 
yells — had streamed by in scores and fif- 
ties each evening from the north and 
northeastward, plainly newcomers every 
one of them; and now even the wavies 
(Snow Geese), the most tardy migrants 
of the clan, were coming, for this morn- 

ing the glasses picked up two hundred 
or three hundred glistening white on the 
blue lake, where yesterday there had been 
seventy-five and the previous day but a 
score. The goose battalions, most inspir- 
ing division in the whole autumn host of 
migrants, plainly had arrived. 

As dusk settled upon the water, the 
go-to-bed clamor of the goose throng 
centralized and grew fainter toward the 
southwest, and I knew that they were 
drifting into the big bay there to spend 
the night. For a goose loves to get his 
feet anchored while he is on the night- 
roost, and I knew well that this bay, with 



its low, pastured shore, had seen the go- 
ing to bed and awakening of innumer- 
able goose thousands each autumn for a 
generation. Also I knew that it had seen 
the midday sun-bathing of the same thou- 
sands — all of which was of much more 
concern to me. 

Out of the dusk, on the skyline five 
miles distant, twinkling directly back of 
the go-to-bed goose racket, was the little 
light in the shanty of the game protec- 
tionist. I was interested in that light in 
conjunction with the goose noises, for I 
saw here one of my theories in imminent 
danger of being shortly relegated to the 
realm of discards. For when a month 
previously he — the G. P. — had come 
along from the East with a shooting 
lease in his pocket (the rights for the 
whole ranch shore) and had built a 
shanty upon the very spot where for- 
merly, remote from even a farmhouse, 
I had stalked cranes and pelicans and 
things, I told him plainly, bluntly, that 
he had spoiled all the poetry of the place 
— that I couldn't sleep there any more 
with the same all-alone-to-goodness feel- 
ing as so often before when I had rolled 
in my blanket in the lee of the canoe; 
and I told him, also, that the geese 
wouldn't frequent that shore-line any 

But now I had come to know the G. 


P. better. All through the September 
open season I had scarcely heard the 
sound of his gun, though some of the 
other preserves rattled daily like battle- 
grounds. Also, I had spent a day or 
two under his roof and found that the 
canvasbacks drifted about beside his boats 
below the window and tolled to the frisk- 
ings of Bess, the setter, while a family of 
Canadian geese sunned themselves in the 
shallows at no great distance. So now I 
was almost ready to believe that the 
thousand gray geese whose gabble was 
dying out of earshot in the darkness were 
bent on spending the night about his 

The last of the morning flight of noisy 
wawas going fieldwards were streaming 
from the water when I pushed out in the 
canoe, bound for my neighbor's shanty. 
About an hour later I reached my desti- 
nation, and the reply to almost my first 
query was something like: 

"Any geese? I should say! If you 
had tried to sleep here last night you 
would have thought so! That bay up 
there is about full of them every day at 
noon. Now is your chance, and I have 
a blind there ready for you." 

The blind did not suit me. It was a 
pit dug on the edge of the abrupt bank, 
here about three feet high, and it com- 
manded a view of the curving line of the 


bay. But it was shallow and there were 
sods piled around it, and while it might 
have served first rate for a gunner, I felt 
that it was not cunning enough to serve 
my purpose. So I got the spade and four 
or five laths and set to work. I expended 
a great deal of myself on that pit, but I 
had plenty of time. I dug it deep ; I 
threw all the loose earth into the water, 
covered all fresh signs with some dry 
pond-weed matting, and then planted 
goldenrod sprigs around the mouth of 
the hole — not thickly, but just as they 
grew on the soddy bank beside me. Next 
I placed the laths across half the pit- 
mouth and thatched it as artfully as I 
could with grass. Whereupon I felt 
satisfied with my handiwork and sat 
down to watch patiently for the return- 
ing flight. 

At ten o'clock I went below ; the geese 
were coming back high and doing their 
apparently idiotic tumbling performance 
over the water. Eleven o'clock: dread- 
ful monotony in the pit, and the goose 
situation unchanged. Twelve o'clock: 
aches and pains, and the geese gabbling 
sleepily fully a mile distant. One o'clock : 
a wolfish appetite in front and several 
dorsal vertebrae getting out of place be- 
hind ; the geese apparently well satisfied 
with their midlake quarters. One-thirty: 
a tittering of speckled geese closer at 

hand, and I felt that the curtain was 
about to rise. 

Risking a slow, canny peep, I saw the 
newcomers stealing up low over the wa- 
ter, headed directly toward me. They 
rose presently and edged in toward the 
shoreline and circled back again, then 
turned, and with their heads a-wiggling 
as they peered and peered, they came out 
over the sod a distance, then veered 
around again and settled in the water 
about one hundred yards from shore. 
Scouts! And what scouts ever knew 
their work better? 

But more were coming, and quickly — 
flock after flock, and all speckled chaps. 
Soon some were lighting in the water, 
others swimming in steadily, cannily to- 
ward me, while others were whisking 
about overhead, so that I had to crouch 
back under my little roof till they went 
by. So thorough was their inspection of 
the shore that some of them saw the pit- 
mouth and swirled away with warning 
calls; but as nothing stirred to increase 
their alarm, they immediately were reas- 
sured and forgot their fright. Soon the 
air was filled with a tittering and squeak- 
ing and gabbling (these geese never honk 
like the rest of the clan), and I judged 
by the clamor, for I dared not peep, 
that a goodly number were in the shal- 
lows within thirty yards of me. 




Then there came a fresh hurrah of 
honking and shouting and the black- 
necked grays were coming. They did 
far less maneuvering; it was plain that 
they trusted to the leadership of their 
speckled brethren ; and now they flapped 
into the bay, took a turn and dropped 
into the shallows. What a glorious din ! 
Aches and pains were forgotten. I looked 
at my watch — 2 :30 ! They had been 
coming for an hour and I could have 
sworn it had been but fifteen minutes. 
The bay must be full. With some 
goldenrod tops stuck in my hair I dared 
a slow, cautious peep. It was a glorious 
sight! I was on the end of the congre- 
gation ; the bay for two hundred yards 
north of me was living with geese. They 
were in the water and up sunning on the 
sand ; they were sitting, standing, stretch- 
ing, flapping, preening, fighting, and frol- 
icking. It was time for a picture. 

Company Come! 

At this precise moment I was fright- 
fully positive that I heard a snuff at the 
landward side of me, and, lowering my 
head, I pivoted around to — gaze right 
into the face of a big, red steer. He was 
standing not ten feet distant, with his 
head lowered and with a "What-in-the- 
name — !" expression on his phlegmatic 
countenance. Behind him I could see the 
backs of some fifty more of his kind, and 
— horrible thought! — they were feeding 
directly toward the bay. With a sick, 
now-or-never feeling at the pit of my 
stomach I examined the camera fixings 
again — I had done it already the Nth or 
Mth time. Then I bobbed up, swept the 
bay with the finder, and released the 

I had expected to get one picture and 
one only from the pit, and I held my 
breath in anticipation of the rush and 
roar that must follow as the shoreline 
was cleared. But there was merely a 
slight commotion, a sort of "Did-I-see- 
something?" giggle from some of the 
nearby geese, and nothing more. Quick- 
ly I made adjustments and rose — to find 
1,000-odd pounds of beef towering in 
front of me! I let out a horrid "Gr-rr-r 
r-ow-woff!" and a scared shiver shot 
through the brute as he jerked back an 

inch or two. Then he advanced again, 
wonderment and curiosity written in 
scare headlines all over him. 

Then came another and another — an 
inquisitive yearling, a silly, two-year-old 
heifer, and a blinking old Nancy with 
rings on her horns. By that wondrous 
telepathy practiced by the animals, the 
news had gone abroad, and all came over 
to ogle and ogle and snuff and edge 
nearer, an inch at a time. Soon all the 
standing room in the front was taken 
and the late-comers began to use rough 
tactics, till I feared that I was in imme- 
diate danger of having company in the 
pit and thrust up head and shoulders 
above the pit-mouth. 

The geese paid scant heed to the cattle, 
and they saw so little of me among my 
intrusive visitors that they failed to rec- 
ognize the species and showed no sign of 
leaving. But the cattle showed the same. 
There were 450 head on that ranch, and 
all, jointly and severally, were bent on 
coming to the show. They were getting 
unruly now. One big, rakish red steer, 
that thought he was a bull because he 
had a rough voice, thrust himself in so 
close that his front feet narrowly missed 
a plunge through the frail lath roof ; and 
he stood there and said "Ba-a-a-ow!" and 
pawed dust over himself and me and 
snuffed and shook his head. And, on my 
part, I cursed him impotently ; I gathered 
handfuls of wet sand and slammed it into 
his eyes, making him at least wink hard ; 
I called him names that would have 
shocked a sixth century pirate; I threw 
slurs upon his ancestors and with malev- 
olent precision spat on the end of his 
beslobbered nose. 

But worse was coming. A number of 
the animals now jumped down to the 
water's edge and under pretext of drink- 
ing a mouthful here and there routed the 
geese close at hand, then deliberately 
turned down the bay to do the same 
with the larger throng there. I realized 
now that the game was up, and rose and 
snapped through the first opening that 
was presented. Then, as the geese in a 
seething clangor stormed off lakewards, 
I sprang over the bank, seized upon the 
sun-bleached jawbone of something — it 
wasn't an ass — and for the next several 
minutes consecrated my life to vengeance 



— dark, deep, unchristianlike, but at the 
time mighty satisfying. 

About the time that my wind was fall- 
ing short of immediate demands the G. 
P. appeared from somewhere close at 
hand, where he had been watching from 
behind the scene. He did not laugh — 
not even once. Now that I look back 
through a cooler, saner distance, I feel 
that he was too gentlemanly; then I felt 
that he didn't dare to. Instead, he took 
me into the shanty and with liberal 
bounty fed the wolf within me. 

Whereupon I got into the canoe and 
set off campward to satisfy myself as to 
what was on the two precious plates I 
had exposed. When, a few hours later, 

sitting before the little ruby light in my 
hole-in-the-ground dark-room, I found 
there was not much of anything on the 
first one and but an indifferent image on 
the second, I lost the last shred of an 
already ruined vocabulary and vowed 
that I would return on the morrow. 

I did so, and when next I disembarked 
at the landing of the G. P. I carried, in 
addition to my photographic outfit, my 
little .44 calibre double-barrelled shot- 
gun, and my pockets rattled with shells. 
At the sight of it the G. P. did laugh. 
Also, he offered to lend me a full-grown 
12 gauge for the occasion. But I de- 
clined the well-meant offer and at ten 
o'clock went off to the pit on the shore 



The geese were clattering noisily in 
midlake and the cattle feeding half a mile 
distant when I loaded the little gun, 
tucked it away in a handy corner of the 
pit, and then holed up beside it. Of 
course I was hoping my bovine visitors 
wouldn't come, but if they did I prayed 
that the first might be a big, red steer 
with an abominable voice and a broken 
horn-tip. But they did not come, and I 
am not sure whether I was pleased or 
sorry to find, an hour later, that they 
were a mile or more distant. 

Sharp at twelve the geese came ashore, 
and in so doing they repeated their pre- 
vious performance to the letter. The 
speckled scouts led them in, and soon 

were standing in the shallows directly 
below my bank blind. The grays, by 
far the more numerous, followed them 
quickly and lined the bay. Last of all, 
several hundred snow geese anchored 
their white squadrons just outside the 
ranks of the others. It was a goodly 
sight, and as I had artfully arranged a 
safer lookout I was the better able to 
enjoy it. 

The din was tremendous; it droned on 
unceasingly like the symphony from a 
huge organ. Above the shooting and 
honking of the grays, the teeheeing and 
tittering and cackling of the speckled, 
and the high-pitched yelling of the snows, 
there sounded a deep, pulsating under- 


tone — strong, vibrant, rhythmical. There 
were diminuendos and crescendos in this 
barbaric monotone, but it died low or 
ceased only when some suspicious gander 
shouted a sharp warning and all necks 
were stiffened anxiously in alarm. Upon 
the alarm proving a false one and safety 
being assured, it rose again, strong and 

How different is the wild thing, ani- 
mal or bird, when we catch him truly 
himself — quite at home as it were — to 
the creature we usually meet: on the qui 
v'we, conscious, afraid. Here, at fifty 
feet, a hundred geese, utterly unconscious 
of the spying eye of any foe, showed me 
little sides of their goose nature that are 
seldom revealed. It was plain that, 
though four or five species of the birds 
were here in one congregation, each spe- 
cies held aloof and showed actual dislike 
to all other than their own kind. The 
speckled fellows formed one unit, the 
Hutchins or Cacklers another, and so on 
through the assembly. They were mere- 
ly allies united in a common cause — self- 
preservation. Also, each species plainly 
was broken into families. The young 
were still trusting to the leadership of 
the parents. 

Though more difficult to discern 

among the black-necked grays, where the 
brownish coats of the young were the 
chief color-evidence, with the speckled 
geese differentiation was easy, as the juve- 
niles wore no black breast markings nor 
white facial crescents. And there were 
introductions of family to family there 
just as plainly as could be. Though 
somewhat informal, they were all rather 
much alike. When family met family, 
everyone arched his neck and pumped his 
head a few times, and, advancing, they 
passed through among each other a time 
or two and then rearranged close to their 
respective parents. 

Also, some of them played a game, or 
what to me was mighty like one, for they 
chased each other around in a circle on 
the water, half running, half flying, after 
the manner of a young duck. I could 
not get the point of the affair, but it may 
have been merely the old "keep the pot 
boiling," for they raced hard and lashed 
the water into a turmoil with their 

But I had to disturb this rare scene. 
With the camera ready I bobbed up like 
a jack in the box, snapped, and jerked 
down. There was a moment of impres- 
sive silence; then came a rush and tre- 
mendous clamor as the shallows in front 


of me were cleared. But they had not 
all seen me ; and now, encouraged by 
many of their comrades that had remained 
behind, the scared fugitives dropped into 
the water again. My ear told me this; 
for now, in the face of one thousand or 
more eyes sharp focused upon my exact 
location, I dared not even peep. Soon, 
to my surprise and joy, I could hear that 
the shallows were well filled again, so I 
popped up as before. There was another 
clangorous exit ; yet again they returned 
and again I shot at them. 

Now, however, the birds had come to 
the limit of their credulity. It might have 
been an hallucination once or even twice, 
they argued, but three times — never! 
And they now shunned the shore in front 
of my pit. Soon they began to fly off 
in detachments toward the prairie, and 
as I could not rise to watch them I had 
to surmise that they w T ere going off to 
the fields. They rose noisily, flock after 
flock, barely cleared the low bank, and 
strung out over the sod. A hundred 
streamed over my head so low that I had 
to throttle an almost irresistible desire to 
grab for some of them. It was impossi- 
ble to photograph them, and I knew it, 
but I tried all the same, and squirmed 
and contorted into a dozen positions and 

shapes and hoisted my feet and sat on the 
back of my neck till all the world seemed 
black in the face. 

The last plate was gone. It was three 
o'clock and my outraged bones and stom- 
ach were crying out vehemently as I 
stood up and turned to the westward to 
follow the last stragglers from the shore. 
Blunderer! Fool! Imbecile! Less than 
a hundred yards away, on the bare sod 
knoll, standing with necks fear-stiffened, 
were acres and acres of geese. All the 
goose clans in the Canadian Northwest 
seemed to be there, and as I frantically 
rummaged for another plate that of 
course wasn't there, the whole mass rose 
in a seething pandemonium and flowed 
by in front of me to settle in the lake a 
quarter of a mile from shore. They 
were thoroughly alarmed now, and their 
excited jabbering made a tremendous 

But I was not through with them yet, 
and as I hurried off toward the shanty I 
was to see still another side of goose na- 
ture. The great throng had scarcely 
more than settled than some of the birds 
rose and returned. They did not come 
in flocks, but in ones and twos, and they 
straggled back to the knoll where former- 
ly the whole congregation had camped, 




then circled and called and circled 
again. They paid no more attention to 
me than if I had been a tuft of grass, 
and soon I saw why: they were young 
birds, just out of the lonely North, and 
they knew not guileful Man. In the 
hurried scramble from the sod the birds 
had quickly lined up in ranks, as is their 
wont always, and many of the young had 
lost the other members of the family. 
They were now trying to find them and 
naturally returned to the place where 
they had been seen last. 

They were not easily discouraged in 
their hopeless quest, for during the next 
half hour, as I was very busy at the little 
table in the G. P.'s shanty, a score or two 

of the birds were constantly hovering and 
circling over the prairie. Then they 
moved down and invaded the very prem- 
ises. This was too much for even the 
G. P., and he loaded the gun. He 
dropped two among the boats as I ate, 
another he shot from the door, and once, 
when he was busy, I surreptitiously fired 
through the open window and brought 
down a fourth. 

Thus some of these young geese did 
not find their kin ; but whether or not 
the others succeeded I am unable to say, 
for at four o'clock the whole assembly 
filed off in flocks to the grainflelds, and I 
loosened my belt two holes and set off 
in the canoe homeward. 

What has become of the shore birds? That is the question 
that Mr. Laing asks and answers in the May OUTING 






Illustrated with Photographs 

"C^VERY country has its own customs in sport as in other things. 
*-^ It has remained for Hawaii to reign preeminent in the manly 
sport of surf-riding. The conformation of the beach and the bot- 
tom along the island shores brings the waves in in long, carrying 
swells that shoot the expert rider toward shore with the speed of 
an express train None but a strong swimmer dare venture out, 
but for those who can do the trick there is nothing can beat the 
sensation. The article which follows is a narrative of a typical 
experience at Waikiki, where the conditions are perhaps the best 
in all the islands, as recounted by a newcomer. 

AST us as we sit on the sand 
waiting for Linda runs Duke 
Paoa, stripped to a blue breech 
clout, with his light "alaia" 
like a dark mahogany ironing- 
board under his arm. Makaele 


s him 

in his sing-song voice, wait 
for us; what's your hurry?" 

"Goin' out with Kahola," the Duke 

calls back without stopping, heading off 
down the beach where Kahola's mighty 
back makes a warm-colored break on the 
white sand. 

"The two best surfers in the islands," 
says Makaele, watching them. "See, 
they're goin' to ride the big surf this 

Sure enough Kahola, grabbing up his 
big board, joins Paoa, and the two to- 




gether, moving still farther away to the 
left, slosh out through the shallows. 
Pretty soon, waist deep, they slap their 
boards down and begin paddling through 
the broken white water where spent roll- 
ers come creaming up the sand. 

"Yes, surely the two best here at Wai- 
kiki — not counting yourself, Mak. Paoa 
is wonderful. Kahola slower, not so 
graceful. But how about the other is- 
lands, Niihau or Hawaii? Those wild 
stories of Hilo Bay?" 

"Everyone says the best in the world 
are here," says Makaele, throwing hand- 
fuls of sand on his coppery legs. "But 
those are not wild stories. After a big 
kona (south wind) at Hilo I have seen 
men come in standin' three miles across 
the bay, fair tearin' up the ocean. At 
Niihau, the reef is very far out there, 

farther than at Hilo, five miles even they 
ride in that surf, though I have not my- 
self seen them. But in those places they 
have big boards, 'olos.' Your 'alaia' is 
not seven feet. Paoa's and mine less 
than six. Now at Hilo Bay they are 
often ten or twelve, sometimes more. To 
manage an olo like that takes a very 
strong man, like the old chiefs." 

"Like old chief Kahola there navigat- 
ing that barge of his. Anybody else 
would have to lug it out in a canoe." 

The two champions, outward bound, 
are hurdling their first breakers. Three 
or four other "kamaainas" (old-timers) 
are riding in on the "big surf," their 
poised, glistening bodies coming zipping 
ashore, picked out against the dark tree 
line over toward Diamond Head. In the 
"canoe surf" in front of us some dark- 





skinned kanaka boys are playing, and 
westward, near the Outrigger Club, a 
couple of canoes are launching in what 
they call the "cornucopia surf," where 
the neophytes, the "malihini," learn their 
first lessons in riding the rollers. 

The difference in these three parts of 
Waikiki beach lies simply in the way the 
coral and sand shoal out to the reef, a 
mile or so offshore. From where we sit 
the whole sunny sweep of sparkling ocean 

One of those outrigger canoes up there 
belongs to Linda, the dilatory, who is 
keeping us waiting. She's got that pretty 
Mrs. Neave with her, who came in yes- 
terday on the Tenyo Maru from 'Frisco, 
"just crazy to try surf-board riding," as 
she calls it. So Linda is taking her in 
an outrigger to-day to see it done and 
give her a long coast back in the canoe. 
Makaele and I are part of the Roman 
holiday, a very willing pair of barbarians. 


seems the same, as from one wooded point 
to the other the long, onward-marching 
ridges reach clear across in even succes- 
sion. Hut when you get into the water 
there is a whole lot of difference between 
the big surf, where eastward a more 
abrupt shoal piles incoming waves up 
steep and strong, and the serener cornu- 
copia rollers where the bottom goes out 
almost flat for half a mile or so. 

We don't mind waiting much either, 
for it is very comfortable lying here in 
the sun-warmed sand. Makaele has got 
started on his folklore about the extraor- 
dinary stunts of the old Hawaiian chiefs, 
who "used to run seven and eight feet 
tall, sure kela" Some chiefs, those, as 
the pretty Mrs. Neave would say — and 
their Homeric surfing on twenty-five foot 
boards that no modern man could lift. 






Punctuating Makaele's monologue come 
the shouts of the laughing kanaka boys, 
beginning now to paddle out together to- 
ward the reef, and from time to time I 
can hear the drone of the Honolulu trol- 
ley car with its changing note as it hits 
the bridge back of ex-Queen Liliuoka- 
lani's house. The blue sky comes down 
clean and sharp, to the darker blue of the 
deep Pacific beyond the reef where the 
white sails of fishing boats are heaving. 

"There they are," says Makaele, sud- 
denly breaking off in the maritime 
amours of Kalea and Kalamakua, and 

summoned out of our sun-baked laziness 
by Linda's familiar whistle, we are of! 
down the beach to meet two graceful fig- 
ures drifting in long white bath wraps to 
the sea. Behind them Linda's French 
maid comes mincing like a cat, trying to 
keep the sand out of her tight patent 
leathers. The kanakas in the outrigger 
have sighted them, too, and are coasting 
along toward us, both paddles going. 

"You wouldn't believe what a time 
I've had to make her leave her skirt off,'* 
laughs Linda. "That's what has kept us 
all this time. I tell her," with a wink of 




her long-lashed eyes to us, "there's a per- 
fectly good chance of our upsetting out 
on the reef or turning turtle coming in, 
and then where would you be, Mrs. Pro- 
priety, with an old skirt wrapped round 
your legs?" 

Mrs. Propriety hugs her bath wrap 
round her. She is the color of shell-pink 
coral, with a wisp of gold between that 
and the deeper shade of her bewitching 
bathing cap. 

"But, Linda, darling, at Narragansett 
I have swum — swum, swam, swimmed, 
which do you say? — as far as that sev- 
eral times, and always in my bathing suit. 
These Annette Kellermans of yours are 
worse than the front row in the chorus — 
I feel like an aborigine — there " 

And so saying she gives the bath wrap 

a whisk and a kick to Celestine and 
makes a dash for the canoe. Linda takes 
her white mantle off slowly and hands it 
to the maid. She makes a fine contrast 
to the lady from San Francisco, her 
arms, shoulders, neck and face almost as 
brown as Makaele's, her uncovered mass 
of black hair coiffed tightly, her figure as 
straight and strong as Kalea's must have 

The two girls splash laughing up to 
the outrigger, Linda helps the coral-pink 
in amidships, then she and the two kana- 
kas start paddling easily out in the soapy 
water. Makaele and I are right after 
them, running with our boards like sleds 
in both hands as far as we can keep our 
knees free, then, souse! flat out we shoot 
alongside them. The pretty Mrs. Neave, 




watching Makaele, forgets all about her 
bathing suit. 

This is one of his specialties. Flat on 
his chest, his legs churning the water in 
the trudgeon stroke, he keeps both arms 
going like paddle wheels each side, the 
front end of his alaia scowing over the 
water like the bow of a launch. Every- 
one goes out more or less that way; I'm 
doing the same thing, but only two or 
three others can make such speed as Ma- 
kaele, even when he isn't showing off. 

you are going to wear your short ribs 
right through the skin from the chafing 
of your position on the hard "koa" wood, 
and for the first week of your malihini- 
ship you contract pains like inflammatory 
rheumatism in your shoulders, the back 
of your neck, and the small of your back. 
But the sun and the exercise bake and 
work the soreness out of your muscles 
long before you make sufficient progress 
in the science to take the soreness out of 
your spirit. 



"Keep way over to your left," calls 
Linda; "we must see the Duke and Ka- 
hola coming in." So our squadron 
changes its course and, swimming and 
paddling diagonally in the long intervals 
between waves, we work over eastward 
inward the edge of the big surf and al- 
ways outward toward the reef. 

This matter of navigating out with 
your board is an important part of surf- 
ing and good fun, too. At first you think 

This is the leeward side of the island, 
you see, so there is never a pounding surf 
inside the reef, even after a storm. Also, 
over this flat, level bottom the surf forms 
slowly and is slow to break. Conse- 
quently you often have long distances 
where you can make speed going out ; 
sometimes, depending on the tide and 
wind, the sea all about you will be like 
a plain ; then, especially half a mile or 
more from shore, where most riders turn, 










the surf will come in series, three or four, 
or even seven, crests at a time, rolling 
very grandly in a sea procession. 

Soon we strike our first big waves. 
Over the first two broken ones Mak and 
I coast. Then I see him dive headlong 
into the third, which is curling to break, 
and in a minute I follow suit, depress- 
ing the front of my board with a sharp 
forward thrust. On the reverse slope, 
looking back, we see the outrigger lift 
drunkenly over the white ridge and come 
down, ke-slosh! ke-zop! — Linda a vic- 
torious figurehead in the bow. In ne- 
gotiating these big toppling fellows you 
must be careful to duck the front of 
your board just right as you dive 
through, otherwise she is apt to plumb 
the depths without you or set you back 
shoreward with a big drink of salt 

Now comes a level space and way 
ahead of us we make out the dark heads 
and shoulders of the Kanaka boys sitting 
on their boards waiting for a good wave. 
There it comes, its mounting top shut- 
ting out the sails of the fishing boats. 
We hear them calling to each other ex- 
citedly "nalu-nui!" (big wave) and 
"hoe, hoe, hoe" (paddle, paddle) ; then 
with a shout the row of dusky figures 
out at sea leap upright on their boards 
and come tearing in. Theirs proves to 
be a lumpy wave, badly chosen. We slip 
over it as they go cheering by to the 
west of us, but on behind come some 
hummers, and right on the crest of the 
second stand two figures glorified. 

"Look, look," calls Makaele back to 
the canoe, "the Duke and Kahola!" 
They must have seen us coming out and 
swum across, and a good thing they did, 
too, for now the eager visitor will see 
the finest sight at Waikiki, the last word 
in surf riding. No race in the world is 
so beautifully developed as the Poly- 
nesian, and these two men are the pick 
of their race. Without changing a line 
you could put them into a Greek frieze, 
but you would have to animate or elec- 
trify the frieze to keep it in key with 
their poised grace supreme in this im- 
memorial pastime of their people. Both 
are as much at home on the streaming 
mane of a breaker as a Pawnee brave on 
the bare back of a galloping bronco. 

Ducking through the top of the wave 
ahead of theirs, we emerge to find their 
glistening brown bodies against the sky 
surging down a smoky green hillside. 
A familiar sight, it is nevertheless a 
miracle, for the boards are nearly hid- 
den in spray so that we behold shooting 
down at us two youthful Tritons not, 
as they really are, obeying the course of 
the wave they ride, but directing it; rul- 
ing, triumphing over, the ocean. 

"Ai-i-i-i-e-e-e-e!" yells the Duke, as 
he goes streaming by, light as the spray 
smoking after him, the last of his yell 
swallowed by the half-drowned work I 
make of that breaker because of watch- 
ing him too long. 

Waiting for a Good One 

It is still a good long hoe out to the 
reef and Mak and I, already half a mile 
offshore, decide to mark time hereabouts, 
the outrigger going on to the "kulana 
nalu," place where the surf begins to 
form, so as to give our now highly en- 
thusiastic gallery a longer ride in. Off 
they go seaward, disappearing and re- 
appearing, and one of the kanaka boys 
we lately passed, who has lost his wave 
and with it his companions, paddles up 
to join us. He and I, sitting on our 
boards, shove them all but the tip under 
water. Makaele, a brown merman 
stretched out half submerged on his light 
shingle, kicks his feet lazily. 

In this seventy-eight degree water we 
are even more comfortable than on the 
sand ashore, and the view is finer. Off 
to the eastward old Diamond Head, 
couchant like ourselves, stretches out 
into blue water, the iron pyrites at its 
base shimmering like myriads of real dia- 
monds. Millions more of sparkling wa- 
ter diamonds the sun makes far west- 
ward over the sea to the purple head- 
land of Waianae. Straight ashore, in 
interrupted views, stretches a long, white 
band of beach with the parallel green 
band of palm and rubber trees above it 
broken by square hotels and angular, 
ugly houses. 

We have not long to wait before we 
hear a distant hail from the sea and, 
looking back over our shoulders from 
the top of the next low swell that heaves 



us up, we make out a fine series of surf 
charging toward us hot off the reef, the 
canoe chasing down the face of the first 

Now it is all action with us, for to 
catch a wave just right you must get go- 
ing at top speed before it overtakes you. 

"Hoe, hoe, hoe," yells the kanaka boy, 
but "No!" Mak sings out; "wait, wait, 
no good." 

Checking my headway I see he is 
right, for this first wave is a dull, 
heavy-moving one with a lumpy surface. 
In spite of its threatening height it will 
peter out before it gets ashore and be 
absorbed by the following surf. You 
must let that kind, or double ones, go 
and wait patiently for a precipice with 
a jagged edge toppling over you. 

The canoe goes sifting by down the 
steep slope we climb, a burly, naked 
mariner high in the air astern straining 
over on his paddle to keep her head 
straight, a cloud of fine white spray 
whisping up from her forefoot. There 
is a brief dream of fair women, starry- 
eyed, their mouths open and their arms 
outstretched, and back on the wind comes 
a Gabriel-horn kind of noise, the result 
o; Linda's contralto jeer at us mingling 
with her friend's high soprano shriek of 

We let them go with their inferior 
wave, and the next one, too, but the 
third, a high green comber with a dan- 
cing ridge of spray, we mark for our 
very own. There is a lot of excited yell- 
ing in the process of making this judg- 
ment unanimous, but then each man is 
down on the tail of his board with never 
another look behind, legs churning madly 
and arms whaling the water for dear 

Now the surf has caught us, towers 
over us. I feel my feet lifted in the air, 
the board shoots forward, higher and 
faster I drive till in a sudden white seeth- 
ing I break through the top of the wave. 
Then, lost for a second in the foam, quick 
my hands slip back, legs gather up, one 
foot in front as though kneeling, and I 
rise head and back together, feel for the 
balance center, then stand erect. Just 
ahead on my right Makaele is calmly 
standing in a smother like the wake of a 
motor boat; behind on the other side the 

kanaka boy is whooping, and we are off 
all together, forty miles an hour, for the 

What It Feels Like 

Anyone who has sailed a racing canoe 
in a fresh breeze, or held the tiller of a 
sloop running free in a heavy following 
sea, will have some idea of the sensation 
of surfing. Only j^ou must multiply 
those other sensations by at least ten to 
get the exhilaration of riding a big surf 
at Waikiki. The lift and yawing thrust 
of the wave under you is something like 
that you feel in a boat, but a twenty- 
pound board is, of course,' far more sensi- 
tive. When you first stand erect, it feels 
as though you had suddenly spurred some 
gigantic marine monster with the wild 
response of a thoroughbred hunter rising 
at a fence, or as though the Ancient 
Mariner's Spirit of the Deep had reached 
fathoms up a great hand to hurl you like 
a javelin at the beach. 

As a racing canoe is balanced on a 
rigger out to windward, so we, standing 
upright on our racing boards, balance 
them by anticipating the whim of the 
wave, keeping them coasting forever 
down hill and never reaching the valley. 
While the surf is high and steep I stand 
back on the board ; when it begins to 
flatten out I slip forward. The danger 
point ahead is in driving the alaia nose 
under, when she is very sure to throw 
you and dive for coral; yet I must not let 
her climb too high or I shall lose the 
wave and be dragged backwards over the 
crest as though someone had suddenly 
tied a flock of peach baskets on behind. 
And all the time, like a shying colt, she 
is apt to slew sidewise ; sometimes I let 
her slide off on the bias and then 
straighten her with a flip of my legs, 
when she shoots ahead again, obeying the 
tread of her master's feet. 

Sunlight and flashing color! A great 
wash of air and water; tingling life and 
speed, speed! We are chiefs of old back 
in the springtime of the world, in the un- 
discovered Pacific! 

And so at length we drive into the 
"kipapa," the place where the long roll- 
ers from end to end break and come 
foaming down in white ruins. Here is 
the canoe close at hand. Makaele, in 



sheer exuberance, stands on his head on 
his board and goes on so, his legs in the 
air like the spars of a derelict. I tread 
back from the ''muku" to the "lala" side 
of the wave, am caught in the drag, and 
stop as though I had run into a rope. 
My board sinks slowly and I swim with 
it alongside the canoe. 

"I'm going to learn to do that," says 
the extraordinarily pretty Mrs. Neave, 
"if I have to stay here a year." And 
then to show how reconciled she has be- 
come to Annette Kellermans she stands 
up slowly and proudly in the canoe and 
makes a beautiful porpoise dive over the 

The acme of photography is the catching of wild 
birds awing or at rest. Mr. R. P. Holland writes 
of his efforts in this difficult art in May OUTING 
and gives some sound advice for amateurs. 



Manager of the Washington Americans 


, \I/'HICH W as the best catcher, Buck Ewing or Archer? Was 
* * Comiskey a better first baseman that Hal Chase? How 
did Clarkson compare in the box with Mathewson? So run the 
questions and the arguments that follow any attempt to answer 
them. Mr. Griffith has been in and of big league baseball for a 
quarter of a century — practically during the lifetime of the or- 
ganized game. He has seen and studied and thought and compared 
until to-day he is highly qualified to offer an opinion that is expert 
and as near complete accuracy as it is possible to arrive in such 
a tangled web. He holds no brief for men or teams. His article 
that follows is a careful, unbiased comparison of the stars of 
yesterday and of to-day as he has seen them in action. 

HE older generations fa- 
vor the things of the old; 
so does the new, the new. 
Not only is this true of 
customs, but of public 
persons, preachers, actors, 
or ball players, for instance. I presume 
you are a follower of baseball. Perhaps 
if you have watched the game for many 
years, if you have seen it grow from a 
mere pastime to a great big business, your 
sympathies and admiration are with the 
older generation of players. This is nat- 
ural. Likewise your son, if you have 
one, is intolerant of the old-time player. 
Besides the Johnsons and the Cobbs, he 
rates the star of the . "early nineties," 
for example, as more or less of a joke, 
as a mere beginner, thinking that be- 
cause "modern baseball" had barely be- 
gun its players were not as proficient as 
they are to-day. That is not so. 

Bring together a number of fans. Be 
careful to see that they are not all fans 
of the present day ; turn the conversation 
on a comparison of the stars of yesterday 


and to-day and what a wrangle you will 
raise! Just as those theatregoers of yes- 
terday will take their dying oath that no 
actor of the present day even approaches 
Booth or Forrest, so will these older 
fans deny that Mathewson was as good 
a pitcher as the first Clarkson or that 
Speaker was as valuable to a team as Bill 
Lange. I suppose what I have consent- 
ed to do — to give you a talk on old ball 
players and new — may bring down a 
storm of comment and controversy upon 
my head. But I shall try to make a 
sharp and clean-cut comparison between 
the stars of other days and to-day. Also, 
I think I am able to make this compari- 
son from a perfectly unbiased view- 
point. This is why: 

It may be news to many fans, but I 
have been in big league baseball twenty- 
five years. I started when I was seven- 
teen. During that period I have seen 
every generation of ball players. The 
first generation of real "big league" men 
were just going out when I was coming 
in- I saw these very old-timers in the 



last years of their careers. Since then I 
have seen hundreds upon hundreds of 
youngsters come into the big leagues; 
som : fail and disappear, others play bril- 
liantly for a few years and then go the 
way of those who did not make good; 
fewer play wonderfully and continue 
that pace for almost a score of years. 
Think of Wagner! 

During all the time I have been in 
baseball, actively associated with it, I 
have watched the changes that have 
come over it. I have seen how the 
style of play has varied and with it the 
work of the stars. Before basing my 
judgments, I have taken all these things 
into consideration. Of course, I do not 
expect that everybody will agree with 
me. If baseball fans agreed, baseball 
wouldn't be nearly as popular as it is. 

We shall consider first the pitchers. 
Of the very old-timers there are Clark- 
son of Chicago and Keefe of the Giants. 
They belong in the generation that end- 
ed about 1893. They pitched when the 
distance from the home plate to the box 
was only fifty- five feet. They had, thus, 
an advantage over the Walter Johnsons. 
Clarkson had everything that any pitcher 
of to-day has. By this I mean that in 
equipment, possessing different curves, he 
was equal to the best of the modern 
pitchers. Keefe was what we call a 
"foxy pitcher." He had a wonderful 
slow ball. It wasn't like Mathewson's 
fadeaway, it didn't "break," it was just 
slow and tantalizing. These men were 
the king pins of their time. 

Then came three wonderful pitchers, 
Amos Rusie of the Giants, and Cy Young 
and "Kid" Nichols of Boston. Young had 
tremendous speed and accurate control. 
His career is still fresh in the minds of 
present-day fans. Perhaps Rusie cannot 
be recalled so easily. I remember him 
when he first came into the league. He 
had terrific speed and tricky curves. He 
was terribly wild, though, and we didn't 
think he would last. He surprised us all 
by developing the most perfect control I 
have ever seen. Nichols, the Boston 
man, used a fast ball that was a terror. 
It had a peculiar jump and the star bats- 
men of his day were often made to look 

Clarkson and Keefe and Nichols were 

not quite as good as Walter Johnson of 
my own club and Mathewson of the 
Giants. Cy Young and Rusie, however, 
were right with Johnson and Matty. 
Young and Rusie could be worked more 
frequently than Matty, but not more 
than Johnson. Johnson is the greatest 
pitcher of to-day. I am paying those old- 
timers a high compliment in rating them 
as good as Johnson. What I think of 
Johnson is best illustrated by this inci- 

Just before the world series last 
autumn, I was in New York and a news- 
paper reporter came to see me. 

"Do you think the Giants' pitchers 
will be able to stop the Athletics?" he 

My only answer was: "I have seen 
the Athletics hit Walter Johnson." 

That was enough. When it was print- 
ed and baseball men saw it, they knew 
what would happen to the New York 
pitching staff. 

With the catchers, however, it is not a 
stand-off. The stars of yesterday and 
to-day are not equal. I have never seen 
a catcher the equal of "Buck" Ewing. 
I call him the best ball player in the 
world. He first caught for, then man- 
aged, the New York Giants. When I 
broke into the league, Ewing was king. 
The only man who approached him was 
Mike Kelly of the Chicago White Sox. 
Kelly and Clarkson, you know, made up 
the famous "ten thousand dollar bat- 
tery," a price unheard of for ball play- 
ers in that day. Ewing was a wonder. 
He was a great thrower, not as fast, per- 
haps, as Archer, the star of to-day, but 
marvelously accurate. He was the man 
who invented most of the tricks that 
modern catchers use. He was what ball 
players know as a "foxy guy." 

Catchers of Yesterday and To-day 

In one game I saw him cut loose a 
new trick on Fogarty, a Cincinnati play- 
er, the best base runner of his day. 
Ewing was catching and Fogarty was 
on first base. Ewing dropped the pitch- 
er's throw and Fogarty, trying to steal, 
was easily thrown out. After the game 
I learned that Ewing had dropped the 
ball purposely, that, confident in his 



wonderful throwing arm, he had muffed 
deliberately so as to entice the speedy 
Fogarty into a dash for second base. It 
was a trick that Ewing subsequently 
worked with excellent results. I saw 
him pull it on Billy Hamilton of Boston, 
one of the best base runners of his day. 

As a catcher pure and simple, Archer 
does not suffer by comparison with 
Ewing. I rate Ewing superior because 
of his all-round ability. Archer is just 
as good a catcher but not as good a ball 
player. It is worth money just to see 
Archer catch. I would pay it myself. 
Perhaps he has gone back a little, but 
even so, he is a wonder. His throw to 
second is perfect. As I said, it is even 
faster than Ewing's throw. Archer 
stands head and shoulders above the pres- 
ent-day catchers. 

In making this statement, however, I 
am considering that some of our younger 
catchers are not in their prime, and that 
they give promise of being Archer's 
equal. On my own club I have two such 
men, Henry and Ainsmith. Both of 
them give promise of being stars. They 
are improving year by year, and when 
they reach their prime, watch them. 
Connie Mack has another youngster of 
this type. He is Schang, who did so 
many sensational things in the last world 
series against the Giants. Then Chi- 
cago has a youngster, Shank by name, 
who will be heard from later. 

At this writing the other young and 
very promising star, Killifer, appears to 
have signed with the Federal League. 
This is too bad for Killifer's own sake, 
as the experience he would get in the 
majors would be invaluable at this stage 
of his career. I judge Meyers of the 
Giants a good catcher, as good as any in 
the old days, with the exceptions of the 
stars I have mentioned. He is what I 
call a valuable man, steady and con- 

Making First Base Play 

A comparison of the first base situation 
interests me more than the catchers. 
Perhaps it is because we have had so 
many really marvelous first basemen. 
Perhaps the average fan thinks first of 
"Cap" Anson, who has been exploited so 

much of late in the newspapers. That is 
why the name of the "Grand Old Man 
of Baseball" is so much more familiar to 
the fans of to-day than is that of Charles 
Comiskey. The average young fans only 
think of Comiskey as the owner of the 
Chicago American League Club. Unless 
it has been brought to their attention, 
they cannot think of him as one of the 
greatest first basemen. When Comiskey 
was playing with the St. Louis Browns, 
he absolutely revolutionized first base 
play. It seemed he was the first man to 
realize the possibilities of the position. 
Before his day, the first baseman was 
only a basket. That is, he stood glued 
to the bag and held out his hands to 
catch any balls thrown to him. He 
never thought of moving away from his 
position. Comiskey changed all this. 

One day when the Browns took the 
field he was discovered playing about ten 
feet on the right of first base and about 
ten feet back. People thought he was 
crazy. His own teammates kicked. But 
when Comiskey began to stop ground 
balls that had formerly scudded safely 
into right field, and picking up those 
balls darted to first base in time to put 
out the batter, everybody opened their 
eyes. Comiskey had changed the style of 
first base play. He had made it a field- 
ing position, instead of a mere receiving 

Soon Comiskey began to do other 
things. He played even farther behind 
the base. On certain ground balls he 
made his pitcher run over, cover the base, 
and take the throw. This was unheard 
of — a first baseman tossing a ball to 
someone else on his own bag. So well 
did it work, however, that Comiskey 
soon had every other first baseman in 
the league doing it. Among his other 
qualifications he was a splendid batsman 
and base runner and above all he had 
''baseball brains." Also, he possesses 
ample of the other kind of brains as his 
present-day financial success as owner of 
the Chicago White Sox will attest. 

Anson played four more years of base- 
ball than did Comiskey, quitting the 
game in 1897. Anson was a great first 
baseman. Think of his batting average 
— never under "three hundred," for 
twenty-two years of big league baseball. 



Anson was not quite Comiskey's equal. 
He was not as fast a base runner, or as 
quick a thinker. He was not as foxy a 
player as Comiskey. There was one 
other notable first baseman of that day. 
He was Dan Brouthers, of the New 
York Giants, not, however, on a par 
with Anson. 

Since Comiskey's day there was no 
really great first basemen until Hal 
Chase came to me. I got him when I 
was "on the hill" — the baseball term for 
Frank Farrell's New York American 
League Club. From 1905 until 1911, 
Chase was one of the greatest first base- 
men in the world. Then there came 
along three youngsters who give prom- 
ise of being better first basemen than any 
who have gone before them. By these 
men I mean Mclnnis of the Athletics, 
Daubert of Brooklyn, and Gandil of my 
own club. Possibly of the past genera- 
tion Tenney was one of the cleverest at 
making trick catches, that is, taking the 
ball back handed. Mclnnis excels Ten- 
ney at this, his own game. 

Daubert, being a left-hander, has a 
shade on either Mclnnis or Gandil in 
making plays to second base. Gandil has 
a wonderful reach. Chase was always 
renowned for the way he would take 
wide throws. Gandil can get a wilder 
ball than Chase. He is, moreover, the 
best man on low throws, pick-ups, that 
I have ever seen. They are a wonderful 
trio, Gandil, Mclnnis, and Daubert, bet- 
ter than any trio of the older days that I 
can think of. Even now — for they are 
young — they are the greatest first base- 
men in the world. 

Of the second base stars there are two 
who stand head and shoulders above the 
old-timers. They are Fred Pfeffer of 
the White Sox and McPhee of the Cin- 
cinnati Reds. Pfeffer was an artist. He 
stood out among them all. For touch- 
ing runners at second base he has had 
no equal. He was only a fair hitter, but 
a great base runner. His throwing arm 
was wonderful. I played on the same 
team with Pfeffer two or three years. 
He was just ending as I was coming in. 
I have never seen a better second base- 

It was Pfeffer who invented the play 
that is used to-day to cut down the 

double steal when men are on first and 
third. You know the play I mean. The 
runner on first goes down to second, the 
catcher throws to second, the man on 
third races home. All the teams of the 
day were successfully using this "steal" 
until Pfeffer stopped it. He devised the 
scheme of running in and intercepting 
the throw and relaying it to the plate, if 
the man on third went home. If he 
didn't go home, Pfeffer would back out 
to second and, taking the throw there, 
touch out the runner coming from first. 
How in the world he ever managed to 
get to second in time to do this I don't 
know. But he got there. He seemed to 
possess uncanny intuition as to whether 
the man on third would go in or not. 
Just think of it. Pfeffer carried out this 
play alone, a strategy that to-day always 
brings the second baseman and the short- 
stop into action. 

v McPhee — eighteen years, by the way, 
with the same team, the Cincinnati Reds 
— was the last man to play the infield 
barehanded. He did this for ten years 
after infielders' gloves were invented, dis- 
daining to use one. I know that when 
the Cincinnati fans made him a present 
of nineteen hundred silver dollars, he 
had never used a glove. That was in 
1895. He played all the tricks of the 
base and two years of his prime coin- 
cided with two years of Pfeffer, so I had 
a chance of seeing them both in action 
against each other. 

A Great Second Baseman 

From their day until the coming of 
"Eddie" Collins, there was one really 
great baseman. I have in mind the big, 
graceful Lajoie. For eighteen years his 
hitting was always well above three hun- 
dred. He was an accurate fielder, a fair 
base runner. He was a perfect machine, 
yet a machine. He was always the most 
reliable bit of mechanism in the team. 
He was the star of the highest magni- 
tude, but a mechanical player. Lajoie as 
the brilliant star of the day was suc- 
ceeded in 1904 by the peppery Evers of 
the Chicago Cubs, who in turn gave way 
to Collins. 

When we consider "Eddie" Collins, 
there's no use talking about any other 



second baseman of to-day. He is what I 
call a naturally great ball player. He 
has a rare baseball head. He can go up 
to the plate and if the situation demands 
a safe hit, you can pretty generally de- 
pend upon it that he will wallop the ball. 
If the stage of the game makes a base 
on balls advisable, he will somehow man- 
age to get that base on balls. Collins is 
a remarkably good guesser. He always 
uses his head and figures out in advance 
several possible outcomes to a situation. 
He is the kind of a player — and they are 
rare — who knows every kind of ball his 
pitcher is going to pitch. He never 
misses a catcher's signal and plays his 
position accordingly. 

It has sometimes struck me as odd that 
the players who are called upon to do 
the hardest work generally last the long- 
est. Catchers and pitchers, as a rule, re- 
main longer in fast company than do out- 
fielders. Likewise with the shortstops. 
There have been more stars at shortstop 
than at any other position of the infield. 
This is surprising because the position is 
supposed to be so difficult to play; yet it 
has developed more stars and they have 
lasted longer than any other infielders. 
Indeed, there have been so many star 
shortstops that I hesitate long before 
mentioning those whom I consider best. 
Even now I unintentionally may have 
missed somebody. 

The old shortstops, those of the first 
generation, were just quitting when I 
came in. I remember Williamson of the 
Chicago White Sox. He was a big man 
and a fair hitter. He finished with the 
Brotherhood in 1890. In his day he was 
a wonder; I've seen him do things like 

A hot grounder would come at him. 
He would stand with his heels together 
and meet the ball with his toe. It would 
leap into the air and, nipping it with one 
hand, he would fling it across to first and 
get his man. Obviously his was a won- 
derful throwing arm. 

After Williamson there began, in 1890, 
a generation of great shortstops, each of 
them better than any to-day. There 
was Herman Long, of Boston, the best 
shortstop I have ever seen. I do not 
know his equal. George Davis, Dahlen, 
Cockran, Jennings, Wallace and Wag- 

ner make a list that cannot be equalled. 
Davis was a past master at catching men 
off second base. Long was a perfect 
fielder, fast, possessing baseball brains 
and a comical nature that always kept a 
team in good humor. Jennings, one of 
those who revolutionized baseball at Bal- 
timore in 1894, was continually thinking 
up tricks. Then there is Bobby Wallace, 
who for twenty years, season in and sea- 
son out, has been a remarkable shortstop. 
Bobby is still in the ring with the St. 
Louis Browns. 

About the time of Jennings came Hans 
Wagner. And Hans is still in the game, 
and still a star. With the exception of 
Wallace, he has survived all the great 
shortstops of his generation. Wagner 
has a barrel of ability. He is not what 
many people think, a foxy ball player. 
He has hands the size of hams, but, un- 
like hams, possessing the properties of 
grappling hooks. I never saw a short- 
stop so endowed by nature as Wagner. 
Of course, everybody knows what a hit- 
ter he is. Although his star is fading, he 
must also be considered with the genera- 
tion of shortstops of to-day. 

On a par with Wagner, just as a 
shortstop, not as a batsman, I would rate 
Barry of the Athletics and McBride of 
Washington. McBride is a weak hitter, 
but he is a wonderful defensive man, the 
best in the business. Save George Davis, 
he has had no equal in catching a man 
off second. Besides, he is the finest ball 
player who ever put on a uniform, "all 
white." If McBride could hit like 
Wagner, he would be the greatest short- 
stop of all time. He will outplay Barry 
in the field, but Barry will out-hit him. 

Some Great Old-timers 

Fletcher of the Giants is an awfully- 
good ball player, who has had the misfor- 
tune never to shine in a world series. 
When I managed the Cincinnati club a 
few years ago, I had plenty of opportuni- 
ties of seeing Fletcher in action. Con- 
sidering the years of usefulness he has 
ahead of him, I would rather have him 
than any shortstop in the National 
League. None of these men of to-day, 
however, come up to those of that great 
generation of shortstops, Long, Dahlen, 



Wagner — for I prefer to think of Wag- 
ner in his prime. 

There are few star third basemen. 
Indeed the position has fewer real stars 
than any other in the infield. Beginning 
with that first generation, there was 
Whitney in Boston, Latham of the St. 
Louis Browns, Burns of Chicago, and a 
little later Nash of Boston. Nash was 
just about getting through when Mc- 
Graw and Collins of Boston came in. 
Latham, who, up to a few years ago, was 
carried by the New York G ; ints as a 
coach, was a strong hitter and base run- 
ner but only an average fielder. He was 
with Comiskey when the Browns won 
four pennants. I am rather hazy on 
Whitney, the old Boston star, but there 
was nothing about him that makes him 
stand way out, nor was there with Nash. 

Perhaps of all third basemen Mc- 
Graw and Collins were the best. Mc- 
Graw didn't get good until 1894. He 
was foxier than Collins, a better fielder 
and a better batter. Collins, though, 
was by far the better third baseman. He 
was the most graceful fielder of the posi- 
tion I have ever seen, and for third base 
play I rate him the best. 

The only men of to-day you can com- 
pare with him are Baker of the Athletics, 
Foster of Washington, and Gardner of 
Boston. Baker is a very poor fielder. 
He is awkward. By his very awkward- 
ness, he brings down criticism upon him- 
self; that is, he is accused of blocking 
base runners unfairly. The truth of the 
matter is that Baker cannot help it; he 
is so clumsy. He is such a wonderful 
hitter, though, that his bat lifts him up 
among the top-notchers. Baker is one of 
the few psychological hitters in baseball. 
He always goes up to the plate and 
smashes the ball when it means the game. 
In this respect he is the most timely hitter 
there is. Foster is a foxy fielder and a 
foxy batter. Forgetting Baker's hitting, 
Foster is the best third baseman of to- 
day. Gardner of Boston is good but not 
quite in Foster's class. Baker's hitting, 
of course, makes him stand out. 

Let's run down the list of clubs and 
see how few really great third basemen 
there are. The New York Nationals 
never had one. Devlin was only better 
than ordinary. Of the two Boston teams 

only one has developed a star, Collins. 
The Philadelphia Nationals never had a 
third baseman. Neither did Brooklyn, 
St. Louis, nor Cincinnati. Chicago 
came fairly close to it with Zimmerman, 
so did Pittsburgh, with Tommy Leach, 
Cleveland with Bradley. All in all, 
though, the third base stars are few, and 
of them Collins is the best. 

The outfield presents a chance for 
many interesting comparisons. It has 
developed many wonderful players. We 
shall first cispose of the old school. Of 
it, I well remember Fogarty. He was 
one of the greatest base runners that ever 
lived. There was Dicky Johnson, a re- 
markable fielder. Neither Fogarty nor 
Johnson was a great batter. Boston a 
little later had Hugh Duffy, a splendid 
hitter. St. Louis in McAleer has a fast 
fielder, who, if he had hit heavier, would 
have been renowned. 

Tom McCarthy of St. Louis gave the 
outfield its first trick play. It was Mc- 
Carthy! who devised the stunt of "trap- 
ping" short fly balls and trying for double 
plavs. Then there was Billy Hamil- 
ton o, Boston — out of the ordinary as a 
hitter and base runner but a poor fielder. 
Considering these men in their prime, 
they gave way to Bill Lange, star of the 
Chicago White Sox. From 1894 to 
1898 Lange was the king pin of all the 
outfielders. He had everything. He 
could hit, run the bases, and make the 
most sensational catches. One year he 
stole 115 bases. He invented the delayed 
steal. He was continually Using his head 
and doing the unexpected. He was the 
star of his generation and that following 
it. He was not, however, as good as one 
or two outfielders of to-day. As you 
doubtless have noticed, his period of use- 
fulness was short, for he got heavy 

About that time there came Burkett, 
Hendrick, Kelly, Flick, and Keeler. 
They were all terrific hitters and sure 
fielders. All were stars, Keeler standing 
out. By the time of the opening of the 
American League, the best days of most 
of these men were over. They had just 
a few good seasons left in them. It was 
then that Fielder Jones of Chicago ap- 
peared as a star; Fred Clark came into 
his prime, so did Donlin, always a great 



hitter but an uncertain fielder. Sheckard 
of Brooklyn had some good seasons left 
in him, so did Keeler. What a pair they 
were, both little men, somewhat similar 
in their style of batting, both deadly field- 
ers and trouble-making base runners! 
Of course, by reason of his batting, Keeler 
stands out. Sam Crawford of Detroit 
had also begun to be a star at that time. 
Crawford has stood the test better than 
most of them for he is still of rare value. 

After Fielder Jones, Clark, Sheckard, 
and the rest had their day, there were no 
really high-class outfielders, until the 
coming of Schulte in 1906. McGraw 
at that time was winning pennants with 
very ordinary outfields. Then came the 
discovery of Speaker, Cobb, Jackson, and 
Milan. It is significant that most of 
these men are American Leaguers. It is 
to be supposed that I would favor the 
American League. Not in the last ten 
years, however, has the National League 
developed a star outfielder. I regard 
the prime of Clarke, of Pittsburgh, as 
being outside that limit. On the other 
hand, the American League has devel- 
oped four stars. 

Speaker is the most remarkable fielder 
that ever lived. He is the best man on 
fly balls I have ever seen. Let me show 
you why that is. Watch Speaker some 
time and you will see that he plays un- 
usually close to the infield, no matter 
who is up. In this way he manages to 
catch short hits that would otherwise 
go for "Texas leaguers." I'd like to see 
the man who can score from second base 
on a short single to Speaker. His 
throws are deadly and he cuts down 
many men at the plate. Playing as close 
as he does to the infield, I marvel how he 
ever catches the balls he does. Batters 
seem to hit a mile, but somehow Speaker 
cuts out for the fences and pulls down 
drives that with another man would 
mean three base hits or home runs. 

It is hard to judge accurately who is 
the better man, Cobb or Speaker. The 
only difference is that Cobb is a better 
base runner and a little better batter, 
while Speaker, as a fielder, stands out by 
far. Of course Cobb's base running is 
too familiar for me to discuss it. 

Jackson, of the Cleveland Club, is a 
wonderful batter and thrower. As a 

base runner, however, he does not shine. 
He does not think quickly enough. He 
does not "protect the game" and he is 
not valuable for "inside work." Never- 
theless, his terrific hitting and his rare 
throwing ability bring him 'way above 
the level and make him a star. 

Milan, of Washington, is a better bail 
player than Jackson because "he can do 
more stuff." He is a splendid base run- 
ner and fielder and is a consistent three- 
hundred hitter — different, however, from 
being a four-hundred hitter. He is a 
splendid man to send to bat in a pinch. 
He possesses that very admirable quality 
in some few ball players, "cold nerve." 
He is continually using his head. 

Comparing these outfielders with the 
star of the old generation, Bill Lange, 
the old generation suffers. Cobb and 
Speaker are Lange's superior. Cobb is 
just as good a base runner and a better 
batter. Lange was only a three-hundred 
man. Speaker is also a better hitter and 
is, moreover, Lange's superior as a field- 
er. I think that Milan, of Washington, 
is almost as valuable a man as Lange. 
While he is not as good a hitter, he is 
about as good a base runner; their field- 
ing is a stand-off. 

So as I look upon the great players of 
to-day and yesterday, I think I have 
made these comparisons in all fairness. I 
have said that the pitchers of to-day are 
as good as those of yesterday, that the 
catchers are not. It is my observation 
that no first baseman of the olden days 
is equal to any of three first basemen of 
to-day. So is the best second baseman 
of to-day superior to the best of other 
generations. The old short-stops were 
better, so were the old third basemen. 
But in the outfield it is all "to-day." 

The standard of baseball has been 
raised — wonderfully so. Likewise the 
general standard of playing. But the 
old days developed so many individual 
stars that, were we to consider the whole 
mass of players, those of to-day would 
not stand out. I have given you my 
honest opinion, gained by watching or 
playing with them all for twenty-five 
years. Of course there will be those 
who disagree with me. Every man to 
his opinions. 

(To be continued) 



Things That Should Be Known and Done Before the Speckled 
Beauties Land in the Creel 

And as a ship in safe and quiet roade 

Under some hill or harbor doth abide, 

With all her fraight, her tackling, and her 

Attending still the winde and wished tide, 
Which when it serves, no longer makes abode, 
But forth into the wat'ry deepe doth slide, 
And through the waves divides her fairest 

Unto the place where she intends to stay; 

So must the angler be provided still, 
Of divers tooles, and sundry baytes in store; 
And of all things else pertaining to his store; 
Which he shall get and lay up long before, 
That when the weather frameth to his will, 
He may be well appointed evermore 
To take fit time when it is offered ever, 
For time in one estate abideth never. 

HESE quaint lines taken 
from John Denny's " Se- 
crets of Angling," printed 
at London in the year 
1613, contain much time- 
ly counsel for the angler 
of to-day, for the time spent in getting 
the fishing kit ready for the angling sea- 
son are enjoyable hours to the true mem- 
ber of the clan. Although most of us 
agree that not all of the pleasure of fish- 
ing is dependent upon the number of fish 
we catch, few anglers will deny that the 
day's sport largely rests upon the selec- 
tion of a good and dependable fishing 
outfit, which is well suited for the fish 
we are going to catch. 

Trout fishing, and fly-fishing for trout 
in particular, is unlike any other phase 
of angling; and as success so greatly de- 
pends upon accurately placing the fly 
lightly upon the surface, the question of 
a suitable rod and appropriate tackle is a 
most important consideration. The en- 
joyment of the invigorating life of the 
open is, after all, the important factor 
with most anglers, and good rods and 
tackle will ever be found a joy to handle, 

while the poorly balanced rod and cheap 
shoddy equipment is pretty sure to mar 
the trip by handicapping the unlucky 
owner, who being thus rudely initiated 
in the gentle art, will very likely be 
tempted to "swear off" permanently after 
his first experience. 

The brook trout of the Eastern states 
is at once a gamy and a wary fish, and 
to creel a fair number, the angler should 
know something about their habits, and 
likewise possess a certain skill in handling 
his tackle. Of course trout may be 
caught on a length of twine, tied to an 
alder pole and baited with a worm. The 
secret of the barefoot lad, thus rudely 
outfitted, lies in his intimate knowledge 
of the fish in the nearby stream; he 
knows where the fish are, and he succeeds 
in landing a good string despite his crude 
equipment. That he could do much bet- 
ter with a good rod and tackle goes with 
the telling. 

However, the skilful fly-caster can, 
under equally favorable conditions of 
weather and water, easily duplicate the 
bait caster's success, and his average 
catch will generally run very much high- 
er. Fly-fishing is for several reasons the 
best method for capturing the brook 
trout, and there is a fascination in hand- 
ling the feathered lure which bait fish- 
ing can never give. It requires a more 
complete knowledge of the fine art of 
fishing to achieve success w r ith the arti- 
ficial fly and light tackle, but this requi- 
site skill is quickly acquired by a little 
practice, and once the knack of casting 
the fly is mastered, the angler will but 
seldom make use of the more clumsy 
bait-casting method. 

The choice of a rod is the first im- 
portant item to be checked off in getting 
together a good fly-fishing outfit. The 




purchase of an ordinary "fishing pole" 
requires little thought, but success in fly- 
fishing calls for a light-weight rod that 
is pliant and resilient from tip to butt; 
one that possesses sufficient strength or 
"backbone" to stand up under the class 
of fishing to be done, and last, but by no 
means of least import, it must balance 
well with the particular reel you intend 
to use. The only material which pos/ 
sesses these qualities in the fullest meas- 
ure is split bamboo. Other materials 
make good fishing rods, but the three 
cardinal points of the ideal fly rod — 
lightness, strength, and elasticity — are 
only fully met with in the well-made 
split bamboo. 

There are rods and rods; some are 
machine-made and others hand-made, 
and while all are included under the 
caption of "split bamboo," the supply of 
machine-made rods of inferior quality 
greatly outnumbers the good and service- 
able tools. The principal difference be- 
tween the good and the cheaply made 
split-bamboo lies in the making, since 
the supply of first-class cane is easily 
secured. In making the hand-made 
bamboo, the cane is split with a knife, 
the sides only being used, since the front 
and back sections of the natural cane or 
pole contain numerous knots. These 
hand-split strips of cane are then straight- 
ened and planed down to the correct 
shape from the inside, thus removing the 
soft and punky part of the wood, but 
leaving the hard and springy outside 
enamel uninjured. 

The machine-made rod is made from 
bamboo strips obtained by sawing the 
cane with a fine saw, which cuts the 
bamboo at a bevel all ready to glue to- 
gether. The entire cane is thus utilized, 
knots and all, and the proper taper is 
given the rod by planing away the out- 
side, which is the most valuable part of 
the material. An examination of a Cal- 
cutta or Tonkin bamboo pole will dis- 
close the fact that the grain never runs 
in a straight line from butt to tip, but 
that it curves somewhat at the knots 
and leaf shields. In making the ma- 
chine-made rod, the saw cuts the cane in 
a straight line, and by sawing across the 
knots and leaf shields the bamboo is 
weakened to an undesirable degree. In 

brief, only the choicest and strongest 
parts of the natural cane are used in 
building the hand-made rod, while all 
the cane is u»ed in fashioning the ma- 
chine-jointed affair. 

The harder male cane is preferred by 
anglers and rod makers to the lighter 
and softer kinds, and in picking out a 
rod it is well to choose the darkest (un- 
stained) bamboo, which will weigh a 
trifle more than other rods of the same 
class. The dark color of the enamel 
indicates that the fibers of the cane have 
not been planed away, while the greater 
weight and relatively shorter distances 
between the leaf shields point out the 
more durable male cane. Look the rod 
over carefully and note that the glued 
joints are closely matched throughout 
the length of the joint, and discard that 
rod which shows the evidence of glue or 
openings where the strips are joined. 
Also carefully note if the fiber or grain 
runs straight with the strip; if it does 
the rod is a hand-made one, but if the 
grain turns out against the jointed strips, 
it is unquestionably machine-made. 

The Best Ail-Around Rod 

The best all-around fly-rod for general 
trout fishing is one of nine or nine and 
one-half feet in length, weighing six to 
seven and one-half ounces. The good 
rod will have an even taper from butt 
to tip and the action will show an even 
curve throughout its entire length; an 
even flexibility is the chief quality to be 
sought. Good elasticity and pliability 
are essential in a fly-rod, but the rod 
must not be too "whippy," neither should 
it possess a stiffish action. 

For small brook fishing, where the 
overgrown nature of the banks makes 
long casts the exception rather than the 
rule, a shorter rod may be chosen, while 
a longer rod of greater weight may be 
selected for river angling in the "white 
water" streams of the north and west. 
The skill of the angler must, of course, 
enter into the choice of the rod, and 
while the old hand may safely elect to 
use a six ounce rod for even the heaviest 
fishing, the less experienced fly caster 
will do well to pick out a rod an ounce 
or an ounce and one-half heavier. 



When purchasing a good hand-made 
split bamboo fly-rod, the angler will only 
be fully satisfied by thoroughly testing 
out the rod by affixing his favorite reel 
and line as in actual angling. By fasten- 
ing the free end of the line to a weight 
resting upon the floor, the angler can 
well test the bamboo for spring and 
elasticity by reeling in the line and trying 
the spring under varying tensions. A 
little careful experimenting in the sales- 
room will bring out all the good points 
and also show any existing weaknesses 
which many well-made rods often pos- 
sess. The rod should fit the angler and 
it should balance to suit the individual's 
requirements, and the owner is obviously 
the best judge when it comes to deciding 
whether the "hang" or feel of the rod in 
the hand is to his satisfaction. 

For the fly-rod, the single-action click 
reel is the logical choice, and the most 
satisfactory type is the so-called "English 
style," which has the handle screwed or 
riveted direct to the revolving side plate. 
A balanced handle is a constant source 
of annoyance, possessing no advantage 
for the quick recovery of the line, but 
rather hindering the angler because of 
the liability of the projecting handle to 
foul the line when casting. A multiply- 
ing reel of the bait patterns is an abom- 
ination on the fly rod, destroying the 
proper balance of the best rods and seri- 
ously interfering with long and accurate 

The best click reel is one having a 
relatively large diameter, but narrow be- 
tween the plates. Hard rubber or vul- 
canite is the best material for the side 
plates, while German silver or hard 
aluminum form the best metal trim- 
mings. The most useful size is one 
holding about forty yards of No. E size 
waterproof line, the plates or spool diam- 
eter being about three inches, with a 
width of about seven-eighths of an inch 
between the plates. With a narrow 
spool reel of this kind, the angler can 
recover his line almost as rapidly as he 
can handle the multiplying reel. 

The chief point to remember in buy- 
ing a reel is to secure one of proper 
weight to balance the rod. The proper 
position for the reel on the fly-rod is 
below the grip, and a comparatively 

light-weight reel is therefore essential, 
since a slight increase in weight added 
near the butt end is likely to make the 
rod butt heavy and render casting diffi- 
cult after an hour or so of fishing. 

The silk enameled double-tapered line 
is decidedly the best line for fly casting, 
because the tapered end allows the angler 
to drop his fly with the utmost delicacy 
on the water. Single-tapered lines are 
less expensive, but as the taper is on 
but one end, the line cannot be reversed 
to equalize the wear of casting. The 
level line, having the same diameter 
throughout its length, is more commonly 
used, but the cast cannot be drawn so 
neatly and fine with the level line. Size 
E is the most useful, but a size smaller, 
known as F, may be used for small brook 
fishing, while Size D is only suited for 
the heaviest kind of fishing. 

The commonsense rule in selecting a 
line is to use one suited to the weight of 
rod — a light line with a light rod, and 
vice versa. A comparatively heavy line 
on a light rod will rob it of its elasticity, 
while a light line and a heavy rod is 
surely an impossible combination, re- 
sembling an ox whip more than a fly rod. 
However, a rather stiff action rod may 
be limbered up to a considerable extent 
by using a slightly heavier line, while 
the very willowy, whippy rod demands 
a very light line. 

Selecting the Leader 

The single gut leader is preferred for 
fly casting for trout, and the leader 
should be as fine as can be safely used for 
the fish to be caught. It is of course an 
advantage to use a leader w T ith a break- 
ing strain much less than that of the line, 
for w T hen a breakage occurs the leader 
will first part and the line will be saved. 
Leaders may be purchased tied up ready 
for use, or the angler may make his own 
by knotting as many single lengths of gut 
as he desires to secure the wanted leader 
length. A three or a three and a half 
foot leader is amply long enough, for a 
longer length is likely to catch in the tip 
ring when reeling in the fish close 
enough to reach it with the usual landing 

Leaders may be bought with a loop 



at each end, or with loops for using two 
or three flies. The two-fly cast is the 
best for average fishing, and the single 
fly the more killing for lake fishing. For 
the two-fly cast the leader should be pro- 
vided with three loops, the extra loop 
being tied in about fifteen inches from 
the lower loop. The first or upper fly 
is called the "dropper" while the lower 
one is known as the "tail" fly. When 
but one fly is used the leader requires 
but two loops. 

When purchasing leaders or lengths 
of gut for tying, select only those lengths 
which are of uniform diameter and well 
rounded, discarding all lengths which 
show flat and rough spots. Gut is very 
brittle when dry and should not be 
handled roughly until well soaked. The 
leaders should be soaked overnight previ- 
ous to the day's fishing, and should be 
kept moist and pliable by coiling them 
up and placing them between the felt> 
pads of the leader box. When through 
fishing, it is a good plan to dry out the 
leaders by placing them between the 
flannel leaves of the fly book. 

Artificial Flies 

To the fly caster the subject of arti- 
ficial flies is one of the most interesting 
phases of his art, and the list of flies is 
so long and personal opinions differ so 
widely regarding their merits that only 
the best-known favorite flies, attractive 
throughout the territory where the brook 
trout makes his home, can be mentioned. 
The list of standard flies includes some 
five dozen varieties, but the universal 
favorites may be boiled down to about 
twenty-four patterns. To enable the in- 
experienced angler to recognize the sev- 
eral kinds, a concise description of each 
fly is here given. 

Caldwell — Body, claret silk, ribbed with 
gold tinsel; wings, pintail duck; hackle, 
brown; tail, three fibers wood duck; tag, gold 

Cinnamon — Body, brown worsted; wings, 
speckled brown hen's feather; hackle, brown; 
tail, three strands black hackle; tag, gold 

Coachman — Body, peacock berl; wings, 
white; hackle, brown. 

Green Drake — Body, straw silk, ribbed 
with loose coils black silk; wings, wood 
cluck; hackle, brown; tail, three fibers, wood 

Grasshopper — Body, brown worsted; 
wings, jungle cock's feather, above it one 
strip of yellow color, dyed, and one red ibis, 
about three fibers of each; hackle, scarlet; 
tail, yellow, swan and pintail duck, three 
fibers of each; tag, gold tinsel, and about 
1-16-inch green silk; head of peacock berl. 

Grizzly King — Body, green silk, ribbed 
with silver tinsel; wings, pintail duck; 
hackle, grizzled; tag, gold tinsel; tail, red 

Jungle — Body, scarlet silk, ribbed with 
gold tinsel; wings, jungle cock's feather, sin- 
gle; hackle, white with black center; tag, 
gold tinsel ; tail, three fibers red ibis. 

Montreal — Body, dark crimson silk, ribbed 
with gold tinsel ; wings, turkey's wing feath- 
er, hackle, scarlet; tag, gold tinsel; tail, red 

Pale Evening Dun — Body, yellow silk, 
ribbed with gold tinsel ; wings, mallard's 
under wing feather; hackle, yellow; tag, 
gold tinsel; tail, three fibers of mallard's; 

Professor — Body, yellow silk, ribbed with 
tinsel; wings, pintail duck; hackle, brown; 
tail, three fibers red ibis. 

Red Ant — Body, scarlet silk ; wings, red 
ibis; hackle, red or scarlet; tag, peacock 

Seth Green — Body, green silk, ribbed with 
yellow silk twist; wings, lead colored mal- 
lard's feather; hackle, brown; tag, gold tin- 
sel; tail, three strands mallard's wing. 

Soldier Palmer — Body, scarlet silk, ribbed 
with gold tinsel ; hackle, brown, one short 
above, one full at head; tag, gold tinsel. 

Stone Fly — Body, gray silk, ribbed with 
silver tinsel; wings, mallard's wing feather; 
hackle, gray; tag, silver tinsel; tail, black 

Broivn Hackle — Body, peacock berl ; hackle, 
brown, wound thick; no wings. 

Canada — Body, red worsted, wound with 
gold tinsel; wings, light brown and mottled; 
hackle, brown ; tail, red worsted. 

Gray Hackle — Body, green silk, ribbed 
with silver tinsel; hackle, gray; no wings. 

Blue Jay — Body, claret mohair; wings, 
matched English blue jay; tail, red ibis. 

Jenny hind — Body, yellow; wings, blue; 
hackle, red. 

Page — A red fly with wood duck wings. 

Parmacheene Belle — Body, yellow, re- 
mainder red and white mixed. 

Rube Wood — Body, white chenille, finished 
with red silver tag; hackle, brown; tail, 
brown mallard. 

Scarlet Ibis — Body red, ribbed with gold 
tinsel; wings, scarlet ibis; hackle, ibis; tail, 

Silver Doctor — Body, silver tinsel, wound 
with red silk, finished with red tag; wings, 
mixed yellow and red, with wood duck, and 
bars of wild turkey; hackle, blue and guinea 
hen; tail, golden pheasant. 

For mid-spring fishing, Coachman, 
White Miller, Professor, Brown Hackle, 



and Gray Hackle are splendid flies. 
The cast for the latter part of April and 
the month of May should certainly in- 
clude all the above. For Northern 
waters, Jock Scott, Brown Hackle, Par- 
macheene Belle, and Silver Doctor are 
especially killing lures, while Montreal, 
Parmacheene Belle, and Silver Doctor 
are the three invincible flies for Canadi- 
an waters. 

In addition to the above patterns, the 
appropriate flies to use during the fly 
fishing season include these representa- 
tive casts: 

April — Red Ibis, Cinnamon, Stone Fly, Red 
Spinner, and Parmacheene Belle. 

May — Yellow Dun, Turkey Brown, Iron 
Blue, Spinner, Montreal, and Red Fox. 

June — Silver Doctor, Alder, Black Gnat, 
Gray Drake, Orange Dun, and Green Drake. 

July — Grizzly King, July Dun, Pale Even- 
ing Dun, Red Ant, Brown Palmer. 

August — Coachman, Seth Green, Governor, 
August Dun, Shad, and Royal Coachman. 

September — Willow, Whirling Dun, Black 
Palmer, Blue Bottle, and Queen of the Water. 

Flies tied on eyed hooks of the Pen- 
nell style are preferred by a great many 
anglers, and the smaller range of sizes 
are the most used, numbers six and eight 
being the standard hook sizes for all 
average fishing. For small brook fishing 
during the opening month, the small 
midge flies tied on number twelve and 
fourteen hooks are the most killing, and 
the most attractive patterns are those in 
which brown and gray colors predomin- 
ate — the Palmers and Hackles being 
always good. 

The Knack of Casting 

The knack of casting the fly is far 
from being as difficult an art as many 
are inclined to believe, but to secure a 
mastery over the rod and line consider- 
able patient practice must be indulged in. 
The first point to be attended to is to 
hold the rod correctly, for little can be 
accomplished if the proper grip is over- 
looked. The hand should grip the butt 
at the point where the rod balances the 
best, with the thumb extending in the 
direction of the tip, the reel lying below 
the rod with its handle on the right- 
hand side. Casting is not done with a 
free reel as in bait casting, but is ac- 

complished by reeling off sufficient line 
for the desired cast. 

For the first practice casts, twenty feet 
of line is sufficient, and this amount is 
reeled from the spool and coiled at the 
foot of the angler. Now with a quick 
upward snap of the wrist, carry the rod 
upward, checking it when the tip points 
over the shoulder, not more than twenty- 
five degrees from the vertical. The 
impetus of this snappy up stroke is 
known as the "back cast," and whips the 
line high in the air to carry it behind the 
angler. As soon as the line straightens 
out behind, the rod is brought forward 
with a sharp snap of the wrist and fore- 
arm, and the line is projected ahead of 
the angler to make the long "forward 

The description of this very useful 
cast, known as the overhead cast, may 
appear difficult, but a few trials will 
teach the angler how it should be exe- 
cuted and future skill rests upon prac- 
tice. The chief thing to keep in mind is 
that fly casting is almost entirely a mat- 
ter of wrist action, and no shoulder 
motion must creep in or the accuracy of 
the cast will be interfered with. By 
keeping the arm and elbow close to the 
body the correct muscular effort is more 
easily controlled. 

The properly executed overhead cast 
consists of three motions, and the second 
or back cast is the most important and 
difficult of all to master, because the line 
is back of the angler and the eye cannot 
aid the hand. Just how long to pause in 
order to let the line straighten out behind 
is the crux of the whole cast, and this 
can only be acquired through practice. 
After a little experience, the tension of 
the line' communicated to the rod will 
inform the angler when his back cast is 
complete, when the rod must be quickly 
snapped downward to send the fly in the 
direction the angler is facing. 

The best manner of learning how to 
cast the fly neatly and with precision is 
to practice on the open banks of a pond, 
or in the back yard if there is space to 
swing a fairly long line. Begin by mak- 
ing short casts and endeavor to aim at 
accuracy and delicacy rather than to at- 
tain long distance. The line should be 
kept well up in the air on the back cast, 



and the rod should neither be carried too 
far backward, nor should too long a 
pause intervene between the back and 
forward casts. The beginner will find 
it an advantage to time the cast by count- 
ing, "one" for the up stroke, "two and" 
for the line to straighten out behind his 
back, and "three" for the final forward 
throw. The success of the fly caster on 
the stream chiefly depends upon handling 
the fly lightly, and delicacy together with 
reasonable accuracy are the two principal 
things to attain. By using a newspaper 
for a target in the back yard, one may 
become quite proficient with a little sys- 
tematic practice. 

The skilful handling of the flies on the 
water is a much finer art than mere ex- 
pertness in casting and means a great 
deal more to the average fisherman. The 
seasoned fly-caster prefers to wade with 
the current, and casting before him, he 
flicks his flies to cover every bit of 
promising and flshable water. Just 
where the trout are wont to hide de- 
pends upon the season of the year, the 
nature of the stream, and also upon the 
trout, since the characteristics of the 
brook trout in different localities and in 
different streams will be found to vary 
considerably, while the habits of the rain- 
bow and brown trout are, of course, dis- 

One of the common mistakes which 
the novice is likely to make is to en- 
deavor to imitate the flight of natural 
insects as they alight upon the water. 
Now this imitation may be correct in 
theory, but the practice of skipping and 
twitching the flies about in the fond be- 
lief that you are fooling Mr. Trout is 
about the worst kind of amateur fishing. 
If you are anxious to catch a few trout, 
do not attempt to formulate an original 
system for their capture, unless you are 
more interested in putting your theories 
to the test than in catching trout. The 
experienced fly-caster will invariably 
wade with the stream and the majority 
of his casts will be made across the cur- 
rent at right angles to the stream's flow. 

The flies are cast above the likely- 
looking places and the current allowed 
to carry them along in a partly sub- 
merged and wholly natural manner, 
while the angler is enabled to keep a 

fairly taut line. As a general thing, the 
slightly submerged fly insures the better 
luck, yet there are numerous exceptions 
to this. But submerged does not mean 
fishing with the fly dragging deep in the 
water, unless the stream is flooded and 
discolored by recent rains, when deep 
fishing is the most successful method. 

From the standpoint of sport, surface 
fishing is recommended, and when cast- 
ing is done under favorable conditions 
of wind and water, the surface fly will 
creel as many fish as any method of fish- 
ing. To keep the fly on the surface, the 
tip of the rod should be carried fairly 
high and the line kept taut by taking up 
the slack with the free hand. The flies 
should float down with the current in a 
perfectly natural manner, and advantage 
should be taken of any bits of floating 
foam to cast your flies upon it and let 
them float with the current. 

The brook trout is a hard fighter and 
will generally make a savage run at the 
fly, and in quick water the fish more 
often hooks himself. The psychological 
moment arrives when the fish rises to the 
fly and the hook is in his mouth. This 
is the time to strike, which is done by 
checking the line with the forefinger and 
turning the wrist to plant the barb; just 
how much force to use depends upon the 
current and the size of the fish ; if the 
trout run small and the stream has some 
current, very little force will suffice ; but 
in pool fishing, where the water is still 
and the fish run large, considerably more 
force is required to hook the fish. 

Skill in striking the fish comes from 
experience, and not a few good trout 
will be lost by striking too early or too 
late, until the angler gets the "hang" of 
judging the behavior of the fish. When 
hooked the common error is to rush the 
trout to the net as quickly as possible. 

However, if slender tackle is used, the 
fish must be humored in until his ex- 
hausting strength enables you to safely 
reel him in. In playing a fish the only 
points to remember are to keep a taut 
line. Let the fish feel the tension of the 
line always; keep the tip well up and let 
the rod curve evenly from joint to tip. 
A good angling maxim to remember is 
this: When the fish pulls, you don't; 
when he doesn't, you do. 



Which Shows the Price That Some Must Pay for the Safety 

of Others 

FREE trader who does busi- 
ness on the theory that 
flour is worth what he 
can get for it doesn't 
naturally look for much 
love and admiration from 
the mission folk; so it wasn't any sly 
hankering after affection that led me into 
their harbor on the Straits that after- 
noon. Rather, it was the sight of a 
long, skinny Marconi pole up back of 
the hospital, combined with the fact that 
the first hard gale of the fall was due 
from all indications to bust out of the 
nor'west butt-end-first in a matter of 
hours and that the owner of the schooner 
Sarah Timmons would not be the only 
one to wonder where she was when news 
of the "terrific blizzard raging over the 
Gulf of St. Lawrence" came to be duly 
chronicled in the Rockport Daily. 

I was trying hard to be proud (and 
chewing my whiskers) from the time 
that bloomin' stick on the top of Signal 
Hill showed up over the horizon until 
it got plumb abeam, with Cutthroat 
Tickle opening out fair underneath. 
Then I lost my nerve. 

"Main sheet, all hands!" I sung out, 
and to the man at the wheel, "Head on 
the wireless, yonder." 

Fifteen minutes later the Sarah was 
hooked up securely to both anchors just 
off the foot of Signal Hill; and before 
we'd finished getting the mainsail stowed, 
whoopee! here she came, business-end 
first as predicted — snow and hail and a 
gale of wind that set the old packet back 
on her tackle and turned the funnel- 
shaped little harbor into a sure-enough 
imitation of Peary's winter quarters at 
Cape Columbia. We got the yawl boat 
half full of water just pulling ashore, 
which shows the kind of song-and-dance 
old Boreas was passing out. You can 

plant your ground tackle on it that I felt 
all-fired tickled I'd come in after all 
when I got up in the operator's little 
kennel on top of the hill and handed 
him a message that went the full limit 
on words. 

"Ain't you scared this coop will foun- 
der?" I asked him as an extra-heavy 
gust landed just after he'd finished send- 
ing. "Now it seems to me" — but he in- 
terrupted me quickly — "Shut up, some- 
one's calling," and reached for his pencil 
and pad with a mighty interested look 
on his face. 

This Marconi business was one fine 
thing, for sure; all this gale of wind and 
hell-in-general going on outside, and yet 
here we few human beings on a desolate, 
God-forsaken coast were talking back and 
forth, sending word home just as comfy 
as a Wednesday afternoon hen party at 
a church sociable; and if anybody ever 
got into trouble, why, all they had to do 
was just tell the "wireless" to send for 
help and haul 'em out! 

When the operator had finished scrib- 
bling and unshipped his ear-tabs I told 
him my sentiments. 

He looked at me kind of queer. "Yes," 
he said, "just send for help, but God 

help " He stopped short and rapped 

on the arm of his chair; then he shoved 
me the pad. I read the message twice 
through — and took a long look out the 
window; here was what it said: 

Dr. Bond, 


Steamer put into Flower's Cove for shelter. 
Two men dying from accident. Come at once 
if possible. 

Commanding R. M. S. S. Hyperion. 

^He'llnot try it, surely!" 
"Come and see," the operator snapped, 
and the next minute we were both racing 




for the hospital. All I could think of, 
stumbling down the hill (for it might 
as well have been dark) was the way 
that little dink of a hospital launch would 
look out in the Straits in this. Great 
God, he surely wouldn't try it! 

We found the doctor in his study 
reading in front of an open fire, with 
slippers on and a big brier pipe in his 
face — where it fitted. He nodded to 
me kindly enough and — "News, Mar- 
shall?" he asked the operator. 

"Yes, sir," said Marshall, dropping 
the slip on the table like it burned his 
fingers and lining up 'longside of me. 
The doctor reached out and opened the 
paper — and the slow puffing of his pipe 
never jumped a beat. I'd counted ten 
of them before he laid it down. Then 
'he pulled out his watch and studied it for 
a few seconds before he swung around to 
face Marshall. 

"Ask Captain Hare, for me, to com- 
mence blowing guiding signals every 
thirty seconds at about eleven o'clock 
and to continue the same till I get there 
— or until 1 a. m. Thank you." That 
was all. 

I don't rightly knov- just what hap- 
pened the next few minutes. I've been 
through some pretty tight passages my- 
self and kept my head; but this thing — 
Jehoshaphat! it got my goat. It was so 
cold-blooded ! 

At any rate I sha'n't forget the wind- 
up in a hurry. The doctor was stand- 
ing in the doorway with his oilers on. I 
was inside facing him. 

"If the schooner was mine I'd let you 
take her/' I bhirted, "and you might 
stand a chance — but that damn little 
launch 1" 

The doctor's gray eyes lit on mine, 
and for some reason I felt like a kid. 
"Thanks," he said slowly. "I don't 
want the schooner, but I do need you." 

Hypnotism? I don't know, was kind 
of hoping it might have been something 
different. Anyhow we went out to- 

By this time the early winter night 
had shut down black. With the sinking 
of the sun behind the Bradore Hills the 
mercury must have dropped off close to 
zero. The snow didn't sting any more; 
it cut like steel dust, and the wind — well, 

sometimes I expected to feel the whole 
bloomin' island starting to turn turtle. 

At the end of the hospital wharf we 
groped our way on board the launch and 
down into the dinky hole that was en- 
gine-room, cabin, and foc's'le all in one. 

"Now, any suggestions, Captain 
Webb?" says the doctor, striking a light 
and getting ready to limber up the 

"Just where is this Flower's Cove 
place?" I questioned back, Yankee fash- 

"Seventy-two miles east - south - east 
from here, diagonally across the Straits." 

"That must be inshore from Flower's 
Ledges," said I, thinking of the Sailing 
Directions' description of those same as 
"the most serious menace on an extreme- 
ly hazardous stretch of coast." 

"It is; in fact, we have to enter be- 
tween the ledges, so it will be necessary 
to steer a very straight course all the 
way. An eighth of a point deviation 
either side," he added in the same easy 
voice, "will be sufficient to pile us up on 
the Ledges." 

Now, it's no easy matter to hold even 
a sizable vessel true within an eighth of 
a point of her course in fine weather, 
and as for a little tub like this and on 
such a night! "Man," I cried, "you're 
daft. It's impossible — it's suicide!" 

"Well," he said slowly, looking up 
from the engine, "the pier is still along- 

"You'll not go!" 

"I? Why, yes, / shall. They've 
sent for me " 

Do you ever remember t^ing to stare 
down the principal when you were a kid 
in school and called up for heaving a 
ball through the window? That's the 
way I felt glaring at the doctor. It was 
no use. 

"Sing out when you're ready," I said, 
making for the hatch. 

"All right," cheerfully, "cast off the 
shore fasts when you hear the engine 
start; then take the wheel and hold her 
south-a-half-east for the harbor mouth 
till I can come up." 

As we scudded down the harbor I got 
to reckoning up the chances in this 
fashion : 

First. We were to drive almost 



straight down the wind for seventy-two 
miles and fetch up on a lee shore where 
we had to hit a mark about three miles 
wide. That just possibly might happen 
— on a fluke. 

Second. The engine was likely as not 
to quit when she got to standing on her 
head outside; — so long, Jack! 

Third. There was plenty of drift ice 
in the Straits that she'd split herself in 
two on at the first swipe; — in the hand 
of God, since you couldn't see ten feet, 
or, say, a 1-to-l shot. 

Fourth. It was more than likely we'd 
get frozen stiff or washed overboard 
when the old gray-backs had begun to 
climb over her; — seventy-five per cent 
against us. 

Fifth. And last, but not least, would 
the boat herself stand the gaff if properly 
handled? This last count interested me 
most, and I'll come back to it pretty 
quick, but for purposes of argument let's 
give her the benefit of the doubt and 
call that 3 to 1 in her favor. Then 
here's the way it stacked up: 

Out of five things which could be 
counted on as likely to happen, any one 
going wrong was enough by itself to 
dump the whole apple-cart, so that the 
actual expectation of life (as the insur- 
ance books say) for the next few hours 
came down to the product of those va- 
rious chances, or, as near as I could fig- 
ure it in my head, about a half of one 
per cent! 

I'd got used to figuring out risks that 
way in my trade, and now I was glad 
of it, because it relieved my mind alto- 
gether — when you realize there's no 
chance at all you get past worrying and 
just sort of take a mild interest in what's 
going on. That was the way I had got 
to feeling when the doctor joined me on 

He began explaining to me how he'd 
figured the boat would act. As I said, 
this point had interested me, so I got 
plumb curious to see if he would prove 
correct. Here's the idea: Imagine a 
bottle corked up and ballasted so that 
one side will float up. Then imagine a 
couple of bugs fastened on topside and 
the bottle tossed into some rapids. Of 
course, the bottle will be under water as 
much as it is on top, but unless it caves 

in or hits something solid it will continue 
to float, and the bugs will continue to en- 
joy the ride-— so long as they don't 
drown or freeze! Well, we were to be 
the bugs on the bottle. 

The doctor had brought up some half- 
inch manila out of the cabin. With this 
I lashed him fast to the wheel-box. 
Then I passed a bight of the line over 
the Comfort's stern and made a bowline 
in it that I could slip into myself in a 
hurry when it was needed. Finally, I 
ducked down into the cabin at the doc- 
tor's direction and got a bottle of glycer- 
ine, with which I smeared the little win- 
dow in the after bulkhead of the cabin- 
house through which the helmsman 
looked in at the compass. The heat of 
the cabin lamp just inside would prevent 
ice from forming on the outside of the 
glass, and this glycerine was to keep it 
from fogging. You have to hand it to 
a doctor sometimes! 

I had just stowed the bottle below 
and slammed the cabin hatch tight shut 
when all at once, without any warning, 
the old Comfort gave a buck jump that 
sent me sprawling. 

"Hold fast!" bellowed the doctor. 
Next instant all the waters of the earth 
sat on my back. "That's the first one," 
I thought. Then I got a gasp of air and 
heard the doctor's voice sing out: "We 
must be clear of the harbor. Come aft 
now." Which I did, and sat with the 
bowline under my arms! I'd figured 
for some years back that I was a sailor, 
but this submarine business was a new 
breed of fish to me. 

Pretty soon I got some of the brine 
out of my lights and saw he'd hauled 
her off E.S.E. for Flower's. Then the 
old Comfort did another flip and half of 
the North Atlantic jumped over us; but 
when she had freed herself — shaking like 
a Spaniel pup — the lubber-line was just 
the least shade to the right of the E.S.E. 
di-amond, and as she coasted down the 
next planing chute it swung a hair to the 
left. For a good ten minutes I kept my 
eyes glued on that card all the time it 
was in sight, and in that time she only 
swung an eighth off, which single error 
was evened up by a similar swing in the 
other direction immediately after. 

It was evident that the doctor was a 



master helmsman, but equally clear that 
he was continually exerting his whole 
force of nervous energy and a good share 
of the physical. Moreover, his skill was 
nine-tenths due to absolute familiarity 
with the boat — in which I would be to- 
tally lacking. In other words, he would 
have to steer the entire distance! Sev- 
enty-two miles! Could he last it out, 
at that tension? 

But what matter! My clothes and 
moustache were frozen solid now and 
every sea that broke over the old Com- 
fort's deck seemed to give her a body 
blow. Still it was mildly interesting — 
like a hunting trip, where the hunter is 
sure to win, only turned around. 

The minutes slid past. We were al- 
ternately dropping plummet-like into 
deeper and deeper pockets and shooting 
skyward over loftier and loftier crests. 
Sometimes a crest would break before we 
topped it and then even the roar of the 
wind would be smothered out. In the 
whole world there was nothing but 
water and wind and the compass card — 
the latter alone visible. Our confused 
senses were tortured by uncanny leaps 
and twists and wriggles which the boat 
made in addition to the rhythmic rises 
and swoops. 

However, one took little count of 
these minor sensations. One time the 
rope pressed against my chest so hard 
that something gave — with a sickening 
jab — and another time when a se-. burst 
ever us I heard the doctor give a stifled 

What was the use ? A thousand times 
I made up my mind to implore him to 
broach her to and end it; but somehow 
the compass card each time fascinated 
me and took my mind away. I got to 
betting myself that the next sea would 
swing the lubber point 'way off the 
course, but it seemed glued there! 

Pretty soon it began to irritate me, and 
I got to taunting it under my breath — 
daring it to move away, go clear around 
the compass if it liked. 

Then I heard the doctor's voice, sharp 
in my ear — "The engine's stopped. Get 

Something woke up; I remembered 
suddenly that I was a ship master, a 
man. The doctor pulled me over beside 

him and put his lips to my ear, "I'm fro- 
zen solid here with this lashing," he 
shouted. "You will have to look to it." 

I watched, or rather felt, for my 
chance, and managed to get below with- 
out being swept overboard. Then I 
held an autopsy on the motor. Gas- 
engines are not just in my line, but it 
didn't need an expert to con this one's 
trouble. It was a broken connecting- 

So it had happened — we were help- 

The doctor took the new r s without 
comment. Instinctively I looked again 
at the compass. With his wonderful skill 
he was still holding true on the course, 
but this could not last long. We were 
fast losing steerage way. Soon she must 
broach to and then roll over. Well, it 
would be best so. 

Again the doctor pulled me over to 
him. "You must rig a sail," he shouted. 
A second time something seemed to wake 
up inside of me, something that was al- 
most dead in my numbed, dazed being. 

"I unbent all her canvas last week and 
stowed it on shore," the doctor was say- 
ing, "but there's a patent drogue in the 
forepeak; see what you can make of it." 

Here was my own sort of work, to get 
a jury rig set up, and quickly — before 
she had lost way and become unmanage- 

I'd come to myself altogether now and 
went about it in a hurry. There was a 
great collection of junk stowed away 
forward, but I yanked everything out on 
the cabin floor and pawed it over. Here 
was what I wanted — a yard about four 
feet long with a square piece of heavy 
sailcloth bent onto it. Next I hauled out 
a coil of stout manila and took enough 
for a set of halyards. Then I got hold 
of the lower corners of the canvas and 
saw they were fitted with grommets. 
Into each of these I secured a piece of 
lighter line for sheets. This done I 
started for deck. 

Then just as I got to the companion- 
steps and was reaching for the hatch fast- 
ening the whole world suddenly turned 
upside down. 

Simultaneously there was a crash; I 
seemed to be falling through a great 
space and then to land very softly. 



When I came to there was a new pain 
in my chest and splitting ache in my 
head — the cook-stove was sitting on my 
legs and a general assortment of pots, 
pans, lanterns, and spare gear lay all 
over the place. But the sight that really 
interested me was the cabin lamp. This 
was one large ball of flame; also the air 
was thick with the acrid stench of burn- 
ing varnish. 

Somehow I got clear of the stove and 
ripped up the cabin floorboards. A 
bucket was handy, so I dipped it into 
the bilge-water, then located my sail — 
so I could find it in the dark — and let go 
at the burning lamp. Followed a great 
puff of steam, a sudden roaring flash, and 
— darkness. The fire was done for; so 
also the lamp! 

I got on deck as quickly as I could 
and forward to the mast. How that 
young square sail ever was rigged is be- 
yond me, but sailors do such stunts by 
instinct, when there's nothing else on the 
job. It had only sixteen square feet area 
and set just a foot or two off the deck, 
but in that gale of wind a napkin would 
have done the job. The old girl jumped 
ahead again and the doctor let out a 
shout of joy. 

I went back to him. "What hap- 
pened when I was below?" 

"She stood on her ear," he yelled back; 
and, by the great Horn Spoon, there 
was a laugh in his voice! "I let her 
round-up too much," said he, taking the 
blame on himself, "and one caught her 
under the counter. She rolled clean 
half over and back onto her keel — so 
quick I hardly got wet. How are things 

"All over the lot!" Then I remem- 
bered, and it seemed as if somebody had 
suddenly hit me in the stomach. "The 
lamp's finished, blown up, done for; I've 
got no way to light the compass for you." 
We were finished. 

This time there was nothing to say. 
The doctor just kept steering. A skil- 
ful sailor can approximate a course pretty 
closely by the feel of the wind — which 
was, of course, the only thing left to do 
— but we both knew that now there re- 
mained not one chance in a thousand of 
striking the far. coast where we had 
aimed at it. 

Yet somehow about this time I began 
to sort of get a second wind. About 
everything had happened that seemed as 
if it could, and here we were still alive 
and afloat. It may have been partly that 
my clothes had frozen solid (except at 
the joints) and kept out the wind so 
that my body was less chilled — or maybe 
it was just a case of getting used to it. 
At any rate, I had begun again to figure 
on the chance of getting through the 
Ledges — when the big surprise was 

The doctor must have been thinking 
about the same thing, because he asked me 
to see what time it was. I ducked down 
below and managed to find a dry match. 
The clock showed eleven-thirty, which, 
at ten knots' average speed, would mean 
we had come within fifteen miles of the 
destination. I wanted to cheer; then a 
curious glint underfoot caught my eye, 
and just as the match went out I saw a 
tongue of water snake up between the 
cracks and glide across the cabin floor. 
I sat still in the dark and waited for 
about ten minutes. Then I struck an- 
other match. This time the whole cabin 
floor was awash. I went on deck. 

For that next half hour I envied the 
doctor his job at the wheel. It was hell 
just to sit still — and sink! Various 
schemes went through my head. The 
wind seemed to be moderating. I won- 
dered if we could'nt sneak off south for 
the nearest point on the Newfoundland 
shore and take a chance on running into 
a lee behind some island. 

The more I thought of this scheme the 
better it seemed. St. John's Island 
would be handiest. We should be about 
off it now and not more than three or 
four miles out. The wind certainly was 
moderating, and the snow seemed less 
impenetrable; one could see some little 
distance now! 

My hopes began to beat high. As we 
rose on the next crest I looked hard to 
the southeast. Was that something 
darker than the sky ? The next time we 
rose I looked again, with my heart in 
my mouth. It was still there! Then I 
shut my eyes, counted a hundred, and 
looked again ; yes, there could be no mis- 
taking if — the dark loom of high land! 

I threw up my arms and let out a 



shout, "St. John's Island, Doctor! By 
God, we're saved — we're saved!" 

"How's that?" he asked. I was sur- 
prised at the new note of weakness in his 
voice. The strain had surely been gruel- 

"St. John's Island," I cried, shaking 
him, "over there — harbor — d'you hear?" 

He was silent for a few moments. 
Then — 

"Yes, we should be about off it now," 
he replied without special interest. 

"But, for God's sake," I yelled, dumb- 
founded, "what are you doing? Aren't 
you going in?" 

"The mail steamer is at Flower s" he 
answered simply. 

I confess it; I wept. 

Half an hour passed. We were still 
afloat — waddling like a drunken goose. 
At the end of an hour every sea swept us, 
though the wind had moderated consid- 
erably. I was near numb with cold. 
Neither of us had spoken. 

Then suddenly something white flashed 
out ahead. 

"Ice!" I yelled, pointing. There it 
went again! — a long white rim gleam- 
ing for a moment across the sea before us. 

"No, the Ledges," said the doctor 
quietly. Every sea we rose on showed 
the white line of breaking water nearer. 
Presently we could hear its crashing 
above the roar of the wind. It lay di- 
rectly to leeward and stretched as far as 
one could see to right and left. There 
was no escaping it. 

The doctor's hand fell on my knee. 
"We have missed the channel clean. It's 
too bad," he said simply. 

I couldn't speak, but I gripped his arm 
tight, and in that instant I loved this 
iron man as I never knew one man could 
love another. We sat there waiting — - 
drifting closer — not even caring to delay 
the finish by dousing the sail. 

"Look!" cried the doctor suddenly. 

I followed the direction of his arm. 
Well off to starboard there was a small, 
dark gap in the white wall of spume. 
We watched it while another sea piled 
over the ledges and saw it stay in the 
same place — an opening in the reef! 

"God! if we only had the engine!" I 
groaned. A curious rasping sound came 
from the doctor's throat. I looked and 

saw he was struggling like a madman 
with the frozen lashings that held him 
to the wheel. With numb hands I tore 
open my oilers and fumbled for my 
sheath-knife, but before I could draw it 
out the man beside me had thrown him- 
self forward and cast all his great 
strength into one convulsive effort. The 
next instant he fell crashing, free, on the 

"Cut away that sail!" the doctor 
called to me, as he kicked open the cabin 
hatch and leaped down. Ten seconds 
later I joined him in the cabin and took 
an improvised kerosene torch from his 
hand. At our feet stood the engine 
whose restoration to life might save ours. 
It was a two-cylinder machine. The 
connecting-rod in the forward cylinder 
had loosened and ripped off the bottom 
half of its crank bearing, whereupon the 
rod itself had jammed in the crank-case 
so as to prevent the shaft from turning. 

If one could dismantle the injured 
cylinder and remove the rod the engine 
would probably run on its after cylinder 
alone, but to do that would mean the 
unscrewing of many nuts and bolts, a job 
for minutes with all facilities — while we 
had seconds only and no facilities. The 
doctor stood silent with head bent for- 
ward and massive shoulders bowed. The 
seconds of our life ticked out. 

Then suddenly he had leaped to the 
forward end of the cabin and from the 
forepeak was dragging out a cumbersome 
iron object — the launch's spare anchor. 

"Look out!" he shouted. Quick as 
lightning he had swung the heavy cast- 
ing up over his head in both hands, 
poised it there for a moment, and 
brought it down with the sweep of an 
axe upon the top of the disabled cylinder. 

There was a shower of iron and — • 
thank God! — it was the cylinder that 
was shattered ! With his bare hands the 
doctor tore the wreckage apart and hove 
out the piston and the bent connecting- 
rod on the floor. The engine was free! 

Next he grasped the flywheel and gave 
it a spin. Nothing happened. I picked 
up a priming-can and opened the pet- 
cock of the remaining cylinder. While I 
was priming it the thunder of the Ledges 
shut out all other sound. Would we 
be just too late, after all? 



On his knees in the water over the 
cabin floor the doctor cranked the motor 
as you might spin an empty coffee mill. 
Again there came the crashing roar of a 
sea on the Ledges almost at hand. 
Would the engine never start — God, it 
was too much! Suddenly in the uncer- 
tain flare of the torch my eye fell upon 
the ignition switch. It was turned off! 

I thought my hand would never reach 
it ; yet it could not have taken more than 
a minute fraction of a second. 

Instantly the engine came to life. A 
big shape hurled itself past me up onto 
deck. The wheel was spun hard over. 
The boat seemed to respond. 

Fortunately it occurred to me to look 
at the carburetor. I saw that the water 
in the cabin was nearly up to it. I 
grasped a bucket and thrust it down in 
the water until I had passed its rim un- 
der the carburetor, then let it rise as far 
as it would. It took all the nerve I had 
to sit there in the cabin and hold that 
bucket. I had felt the vessel round up 
toward the wind and knew that the doc- 
tor was using the best of judgment in 
edging his way toward the opening; but 
the question was whether he could still 
make it before the send of the sea and the 
weight of the wind had carried us down 
on the Ledge? 

I counted the seconds — then the min- 
utes — surely the little boat was at least 
making a game fight! 

All at once I felt her bow swing off, 
and at the same instant the doctor 
shouted. I dropped the bucket and 
leaped for the hatch — was it salvation or 
death ? 

On deck I saw at once that the climax 
had come. We were being shot forward 
on the crest of a high, steep sea. Just 
ahead lay a narrow gap of black water, 
for which the doctor was struggling to 
hold her true — the sole break in a great, 
tumbled line of seething spume which 
stretched off to infinity on either hand. 

Now white water was roaring and crash- 
ing on both sides of us — a scant five 
yards away. The fury of it was past de- 
scribing; it numbed my brain. Then, 
like a flash, all had been left astern and 
we shot into the quiet, sheltered water of 
Flower's Cove — through a hole in the 
Ledges ! 

• • • • • 

Hot blankets, followed by dry clothes 
and some steaming soup, will sure work 
wonders for a man. By 2 a. m. the 
Hyperion s cheerful smoking-room looked 
good to me. I wandered in with the 
ship's first officer, and he ordered drinks. 

At another table Dr. Bond, likewise 
in borrowed clothes, was explaining to 
Captain Hare the theory of splints and 
bandaging. You might have thought he 
had been there all, the time. 

Most of the passengers had been un- 
able to go to sleep on account of the noise 
of the gale, and now they had drifted 
into the smoking-room and were gath- 
ered in groups, listening to the doctor or 
trying to pump me. 

"I tell you what it is," said one smug, 
satisfied, twentieth-century hobo of the 
drummer variety, "man's dominion over 
nature will soon be complete. Look at 
this wireless, for instance — marvelous 
thing — here we put into this little port 
stormbound, with two fellows dying up 
forward — and, lo and behold! We just 
whistle their salvation out of the very 
air. Nothing can harm us any more 
with the wireless. It is the invulnerable 
shield of Hector come true!" 

Across the table the mate caught my 
eye and looked up at the man with a cu- 
rious grin — the same look which I had 
seen hours before on the face of the op- 
erator at Carrington. "I don't know a 
whole lot about this Hector person and 
such," he observed drily, "but it occurs 
to me that Captain Webb here may think 
there's a reverse side to this particular 
shield !" 

by William C. Stevens in May. If you like to walk and 
want to know how to get the most pleasure out of 
it with the least effort and hardship, read his article. 



Cases Which Prove That a Gun Is Never as Safe as the Casual 

Handler Thinks 

^^HESE little instances are 
facts, not fiction, told ex- 
actly as they happened, 
and happening either 
within my own sight, or 
else told me by men whom 
I know to be accurate, and not drawers 
of the long bow. There's no moral to 
be pointed out, it runs too plainly 
through the tales. Also, as I've used a 
gun since I was ten, I have some twenty- 
two years' gun experience back of me. 
Also, with this experience and the usual 
proportion -of the gun accidents that 
happen to every man who uses a gun 
enough to run with the law of chances, 
I have reached certain fixed conclusions. 
They are: 

That I'm more afraid of a gun now 
than when I first started in; not afraid 
of its recoil or its report, but of its devil- 
ish uncertainty, its certainty of being 
loaded just when it should not be. 

That if a man accidentally points a 
gun at a human being he should be re- 
minded of the fact in no uncertain terms 
so that he will take heed next time. 

That if a man deliberately points a 
gun,at a human being, save at one whom 
he is entirely willing to harm or intimi- 
date, he should be clouted alongside the 
head with the first heavy object to hand. 
He is but a peg above the sort of fellow 
who would put a live rattlesnake in your 
blankets for a "joke." 

That if a man fires a gun without be- 
ing reasonably sure that his target is not 
a human being, and that his bullet or 
shot will not injure someone beyond, his 
arms should be taken away from him, 
and his name posted in every sportsman's 
magazine in the country as a fool unfit 
to own firearms. 

The only apology for printing these 


incidents is that they are true, and but a 
jew of those that every observing man of 
long gun experience can recount. 

From where he sat the hunter could 
look down into the little meadow below 
him. In its center lay a hundred-yard 
patch of tangled brush. Its skirts were 
clear for a few yards, then came the 
brush of the surrounding hillsides. Be- 
yond the patch, away from the hunter, lay 
the green of the little mountain cieraga. 

As he watched, a big four-point buck 
stepped out of the brush of the hillside, 
walked swiftly across the few yards of 
clear space, and entered the center patch, 
which concealed him again. 

Presently the brush on the opposite 
side began to wave, and the hunter above 
could see dimly the dark body moving 
through. The sight of the powerful rifle 
fell on the object, but to the mind of the 
hunter came his old rule, be sure. Not 
one chance in a million was there of an- 
other human being in that remote can- 
yon, but he waited. 

In a moment more the disturbance in 
the brush reached the edge — and out 
stepped a man, dressed in khaki, the 
color of a deer, unaware of the presence 
of the buck on the other side of the patch. 
Lying perdu, the cunning buck broke 
and ran only when a shot crashed over 
his head a few moments later. He had 
not gone ten feet into the patch before 
he heard the rustle of the hunter on the 
other side, then he stopped and waited. 

It was in the days of the old Naval 
Militia of Chicago, the good old First 
Ship's CreW. The discipline was strict, 
a veritable martinet commanded. 

Standing at attention on the upper 
"deck" of the old building, a man raised 



his hand and straightened his cap. A 
moment later he was on his way to the 
"deck" below, with a guard over him 
and orders to walk up and down with a 
forty-pound sack of shot over his 

The sentry was a friend of the culprit. 
The rifles in those days were the old 
Remington-Lee .45, with box magazine 
and magazine cut-off. The prisoner jest- 
ingly refused to walk, and equally in 
jest the sentry took aim at his head and 
snapped the rifle. Then he slammed the 
bolt out and in and again snapped it at 
the prisoner — all in fun of course. Then 
he happened to glance into the open mag- 
azine when he again opened the gun. 

Five neat cylinders of lead and brass 
snuggled therein, left by some bone-head 
who had been to the target range and 
who forgot to remove the filled maga- 
zine. Only the "off" position of a little 
catch lay between the "prisoner" and the 
bloody death that comes from a .45 cali- 
ber lead bullet at ten-foot range. 

It was an automatic .22. The ex- 
tractor was not well designed, and if it 
snapped forward when the gun was 
apart, it became bent inward and refused 
to grasp the rim of the shell. The sales- 
man in the store took the little rifle, re- 
moved the magazine, pulled back the 
bolt twice to make sure the chamber was 
empty, and set it up in the rack, to be 
cleaned when leisure permitted. Ordi- 
nary precaution had been taken. 

A customer a bit later asked to see the 
new rifle. The salesman took it down, 
pulled back the bolt, let it snap forward 
— and the rifle remarked viciously, "Pa- 
ack." The bullet went up through the 

Investigation proved that the extractor 
had in closing, because of being bent, 
failed to grip the rim of the case. In- 
stead it struck the rim of the shell, and 
the third time had battered the soft cop- 
per enough to fire the fulminate. And 
the "Smart Aleck," the "Wise Guy," 
the fellow who knows all about guns be- 
cause he owns one, says that "It ain't 
dangerous, I know it ain't loaded." 
Luckily the salesman who handled this 
gun knew guns and the tricks thereof. 

The shell was a bit damp and did not 

chamber freely in the pump gun. The 
shooter closed it and tried to let down 
the little, slippery, miserably inadequate 
hammer. It failed to slip down when he 
pressed the trigger — the action was not 
quite closed. He released the trigger, 
gripped the stock, and slammed the slide 
handle forward to complete the closing. 
Luckily only a few pellets struck the 
feet of the other man and did not even 
get through his shoes. It was a pleasant 
trick of this particular gun that if the 
trigger were pulled when the bolt was 
not quite closed, but near enough 
to appear shut, it would not re-engage, 
when released on the hammer failing to 
fall. Then, when the gun was forced 
shut, the hammer fell of its own accord. 
No, this gun was not dangerous, "I 
didn't even have my finger near the 

'Til fix it," quoth the husky when 
the lady could not get the trombone 
rifle closed. He slammed the action- 
slide-handle home with all the force of 
a husky forearm — then stared with green- 
ish countenance at the hole a soft point 
.30 automatic bullet made just to the 
right of his big toe — said hole luckily 
in the ground, not in his foot. No, the 
rifle was not built to fire this way, it 
could not possibly do it — but trial proved 
that the rifle could be fired just as fast 
as the action-slide-handle was slammed 
home, without finger being near the trig- 
ger. "Perfectly safe, I didn't have my 
finger near the trigger." 

The gunsmith and the owner of the 
Mauser both tested it. The set trigger 
had been changed over to an ordinary 
fixed one, with Zy 2 pound pull, not the 
ordinary double draw with which bolt 
guns are usually equipped. The bolt 
stood their handling perfectly well — and 
the gun was passed as safe. 

It fell into the hands of a person used 
to a bolt action rifle, who made a turn 
bolt slam home with the speed of a 
straight pull. The first shot missed the 
goat, then the bolt slammed open and 
shut with the speed that comes from 

"Pow," bellowed the rifle, in the ac- 
cents of a Springfield 1906 cartridge. A 
jet of dust flew up on the hillside. A 



second time the bolt was yanked open 
and shut, the hunter cursing himself for 
apparently holding back on the trigger 
with what must have been a third hand. 
Again the gun roared. A "safe" gun 
had once more illustrated how safe a 
gun is. 

The safety was on, therefore the man 
who knows it all stood the gun against 
the fence, loaded, barrels closed. A 
safety is a safety, isn't it? The other 
fellow wiggled the top rail of the fence 
as he climbed down, and the double ham- 
merless slid slowly along the rail, cleared 
it, and dropped heavily on a stone, muz- 
zles toward the man who had just slid 
down from the fence. The safety was 
on, it was harmless. 

The doctor got there too late; a 
charge of shot through the upper thigh 
at a range of ten feet leaves little for 
the doctor to do, anyhow. And the 
safety was still on, although they found 
that the sear had jarred out of the bent 
in the tumbler, from the blow of the 
gun on the stone. The safety was on, 
the young fellow must be still living, it 
is all a mistake of some sort. 

The old gentleman, not so very old 
after all, for he loved to hunt and was 
as fond of guns as ever, stepped up on a 
rock beside the trail to gaze down the 
lovely canyon. He dropped his hands 
to his hips to hitch up his belt, standing 
there in plain sight with his handsome 
face, his short white beard, and his gray 

A heavy blow whirled him half around 
and his right hand went suddenly numb. 
The bellow of a rifle echoed and re- 
echoed up the canyon. 

By the luck that protects a few men 
from fools, the spitzer from the heavy 
army rifle had merely gone through the 
right hand without breaking a bone, 
struck a glance blow on his side, and 
departed without entering the body. 

The horrified fellow with the rifle, 
who had met the old gentleman on the 
trail but a few moments before, had wild 
cats on the brain, saw wild cats in every 
bush, and said that when he saw the old 
gentleman with the white beard step up 
on the rock a couple of hundred yards 

away, he thought he was a wild cat! 

It was the usual variety of take down 
.22 caliber repeater. The cautious own- 
er threw down the lever three or four 
times, then pulled out the magazine tube 
and tipped up the rifle so any cartridges 
in the magazine would run down into 
sight. Then it was taken down to put 
in the case. Snugly ensconced in the 
mouth of the magazine, but caught so 
the follower did not drive it down into 
the carrier, lay a long rifle cartridge. So 
loosely was it held that a slight jar of 
the receiver released it, and it slid down 
to the cartridge stop, ready to move into 
the carrier when the lever was depressed. 
"It's not loaded, I worked the lever and 
looked in the magazine, go ahead and 
snap it to see how you like it." 

He was the usual fool, and he held in 
his hand a powerful automatic pistol. 
"Want to see it?" he asked of his friend, 
"I'll unload it for you." He knew all 
about automatic pistols, he owned one 
and had owned it for fully an hour. He 
depressed the magazine catch and slid the 
full magazine out into his hand. "Go 
ahead, she's safe now," he assured his 
friend. Had he not taken out the maga- 
zine, how could it be otherwise than 
safe? A moment later it was as safe as 
guns ever are, for the friend fired the 
cartridge that remained in the chamber, 
and that had nothing to do with the 
ones in the magazine. The man in the 
office across the street spent a month in 
the hospital. It was a powerful gun. 

He had one of the old Single Action 
.45 's with the solid frame and the little 
gate at the right side of the frame by 
which empties are removed and full car- 
tridges are slid into the cylinder cham- 
bers. He loaded it carefully, being a 
careful man with guns, then showed his 
two friends how the sliding rod below 
the barrel drove out the cartridges 
through the opened gate. Carefully he 
removed the cartridges and spun the cyl- 
inder to make sure that every one of the 
six chambers was empty. He was called 
away for a few moments, and left the 
gun and box of shells lying beside it. 

A half hour later he started to put the 



gun back into the holster, still talking to 
his friends. From force of habit he 
dropped the gate and again spun the cyl- 
inder. Across the gate there moved the 
head of a cartridge, just one. One of 
the friends glanced at the gun at his 
exclamation, then turned red. 

"I loaded it up to see how it worked," 
he said, "but I counted the cartridges as 
I took them out, and I took out all five 
I'm sure. Holds six and I left one in? 
Why that's funny, I got a Forefoot and 
Johnson home and it only holds five." 

It was an old muzzle loader, with the 
barrel badly breech-burnt as was the 
fashion of those old guns. For years it 
had lain around a garret, then the owner 
decided to have the barrel screwed out 
of the receiver, the burnt end cut off, a 
new nipple put in, and the old gun put 
into shape once more. 

The smith ran down the old worm 
charge extractor, pulled out a wad that 
lay on top of the shot, poured out the 
shot, took out the powder wads, and 
poured out the powder. Surely there 
could be no safer gun. 

He took it off the stock and put the 
breech in the fire to enable him to turn 
off the barrel. A streak of fire and blue 
smoke drove across the shop, and a thim- 

bleful of shot, nearly as one shot, drove 
out the shop window. 

Theories are all right and luckily the 
smith lived to theorize, because he re- 
fused to trust his body before the muz- 
zle even of an old gun half torn to 
pieces. Apparently in yean gone by 
someone had tried to fire the old gun, 
failed, jumped at the conclusion that it 
was empty, without checking up by the 
ramrod, and had rammed a second charge 
home on top of the first. A farmer boy 
is full of such tricks, with a contraband 
gun and a small knowledge of gun lore. 
The smith drew the first charge and the 
gun presented him with the second when 
the breech grew hot enough. 

Purposely I have avoided the long, 
weary list of the performance of fools 
with guns, saving a few exceptions that 
show "how it happened." 

I've tried to show you how the most 
careful of men and the most experienced 
ones can be caught napping by the demon 
that lurks in gun barrels. 

I like guns as some men like race 
horses or yachts or dogs. I own a cabinet 
full of them, but not one would I trust 
for as long as a watch tick, were its 
muzzle turned on someone that I would 
not dream of harming. 





The Man with the Gun Is not the Only Enemy Against Which 
Our Birds Should Be Shielded 

N the Western mountains, cats, cou- 
gars, and hawks, aided by big gray 
timber wolves and their coyote cou- 
sins, undoubtedly destroy more game 
than all visiting huntsmen. In places 
where a vigorous war, prompted 
by high price of fur and liberal bounties 
offered by State or county, has been 
waged on these game eaters, so far as 

the writer can learn, there has been an 
increase rather than a decrease in the 
number of deer, grouse, and rabbits, an 
increase rather surprising in view of the 
constantly growing body of visiting 

If on the outskirts of civilization and 
in thinly settled parts of the land, it has 
been deemed wise to pay bounties for 



the killing of these game destroyers, why 
in the farming country would it not be 
showing equal wisdom to pay directly 
for game protection? Courts have de- 
cided that game is the property of the 
state. Both nation and state unite in 
making laws for its protection. Why 
should they not also unite in paying 
bounties for its increase? 

In some states the planting of trees 
has been encouraged either by a reduc- 
tion of taxes or by actual cash. 

They tell us a tariff is necessary for 
the protection of infant industries, and 
to increase the output of home-made 
goods. They argue in Congress in fa- 
vor of a subsidy for American shipping, 
so why should not something be done 
along the same lines for American game ? 
Every dollar paid in bounties would 
come back a hundred-fold and more. 

Game laws sometimes protect and 
sometimes they do not. A farmer argues : 

"Well, I'm feeding those birds; why 
shouldn't I kill some when I want a 
mess for my table, law or no law? My 
crops have no closed season. The chick- 
ens or quail or ducks eat my corn and 
wheat when they are hungry, and I can't 
stop them. Seems to me turn about is 
fair play." 

To get perfect protection for the birds, 
something must be done to make this 
kind of man change his mind. A bounty 
would do it. Game wardens are not 
ubiquitous. There are only a few — per- 
haps but one — to a county with a thou- 
sand farmers and twice as many farmers' 
sons to watch. They can't do it; be- 
sides, perhaps these people are their 
friends; possibly their relatives. Then 
they may have been raised on a farm 
themselves, anyway among farmers with 
the same ideas of right and wrong; con- 
sequently it is very easy to get on the 
blind side of them. 

Escaping Conviction 

If an arrest should be made, the trial 
would come off before a local justice 
with a jury dominated by the granger 
influence. What a chance for convic- 
tion ! Such cases always go one way. 

The writer once was present at a deer- 
killing case in a Western state. A poor 

homesteader shot a doe a few weeks the 
wrong side of the law. A neighbor with 
whom he was on bad terms saw him car- 
rying the meat home and next day swore 
to a complaint before the nearest justice 
as the law provided. It was a serious 
matter; a minimum fine of $25, which 
meant fifty days in jail, as the offender 
was troubled with the usual backwoods 
scarcity of cash. 

The evidence was clear and positive. 
The complainant was within a few yards 
of the hunter. He swore he saw him 
walking down the trail carrying a rifle, 
with part of the deer slung across his 
shoulders. The only question asked in 
cross-examination was: 

"Will you swear it wasn't a sheep?" 

The witness, with a snort of derision, 
blurted out, "Do you think I'm a fool 
and cain't tell a doe when I see one?" 

That was all; no character witnesses, 
no arguments, nothing. And the case 
was submitted for decision. The writer, 
who had hired the offender to help on a 
fishing trip for which supplies were al- 
ready bought, was sure nearly two 
months would pass before his man could 
climb a mountain side again, and was 
surprised to see the judge hesitate. Still 
more so when he heard him say: 

"I ain't a-going to convict nobody on 
sech evidence. It might have been a 
sheep. If it wa'n't, why didn't the wit- 
ness say so when I asked him 'bout it? 
Not guilty." 

"Lucky boy," the writer remarked. 

"Lucky nothin'," the "sheep" toter re- 
sponded quickly. "You see, I knowed I 
was in for trouble when I met that 
skunk, an' soon as 'twas dark I hung a 
hindquarter of that 'mutton' in yonder 
old rooster's barn," pointing to the jus- 
tice, "an' he had some of it for breakfast 
this morning." 

Local Feeling 

That is the feeling all over the land. 
Farmers stand by farmers. Residents of 
the same localitv help one another. Of 
course, if an outsider is caught, even 
with a doubt in his favor, it goes hard 
with him. Nothing like turning good 
money loose in a community and keeping 
it there, too. 



In a rural settlement a little easy 
money goes a long way. Where birds 
are scarce — and does anyone know where 
they are plentiful? — some small bounty, 
some remission of taxes, would cover 
everything and stop seven-eighths of the 
illicit shooting, for in almost every town- 
ship there are resident shooters enough 
to decimate many a covey, to bring home 
many a horn-wearing "coon." 

Then, if the bounty did not furnish 
sufficient incentive for the land-owners 
to provide, or, more properly, to spare 
from the plow, spots of grass, or brush, 
or briers, nesting-places for grouse and 
quail, and shelter as well, let the state 
go a step farther and either require by 
law that such be done, or pay out a little 
more easy money for rental of some 
tracts of almost waste land — the farmers 
surely would meet the authorities more 
than half-way. A small amount of 
money only would be required; one or 
two such tracts in each township and the 
problem would be solved. In a few 
years grouse and quail would be back to 
their own again. 

Let us see. One pair of chickens or 
quail, a dozen eggs, with full protection 
from man, eight young birds should live 
and reach maturity. That would mean 
forty birds the second year, a hundred 
and sixty the next, and six hundred and 
forty the next. Looks well on paper, 
does it not? Well, it might look even 
better in fact, unless the chickens were 
to become restless and migrate; but then, 
with uniform laws, the country some- 
where would receive benefit from their 
increase. The quail would remain at 
home and so would the ruffed grouse. 

Vigorous Action Needed 

There should be no half-way measures. 
Vigorous action should be taken. Shoot- 
ing should be stopped on all birds ex- 
cepting water-fowl for a period of, say, 
five years, stopped all over the land. 

With the farmers as allies, the present 
army of game protectors would have lit- 
tle trouble in silencing the guns of the 
country lads, as well as those of the city 
sportsmen, and with "elbow room" for 
the birds to live and breed, even in the 
lifetime of some of us old fellows for- 

mer conditions would to a considerable 
extent be revived. 

And the water-fowl? First of all do 
away with your reserved grounds and 
baited ponds; or, better yet, close them 
against all shooters and let the birds have 
the benefit of them. Places of refuge 
in Southern waters are very good as far 
as they go, but they should go as far as 
the Stars and Stripes fly. Such spots of 
refuge should dot the land from the wa- 
ters of the Gulf to the Canadian line, 
and what better locations could there be 
than those places which for years have 
been slaughter pens for the ducks? 

Few have an idea what a farce on 
game protection this reserved land and 
baited pond business is, particularly west 
of the Rockies. I have before me the 
records of some shooting clubs, records 
to be sure, over a year old, but official 
and undoubtedly correct. 

On the reserved lands of one club dur- 
ing the season 9,200 ducks were killed, 
6,025 by the members of another, while 
scores of between 4,000 and 5,000 were 
rather common, and a club that could 
show only 2,000 was indeed unlucky. 
And this is the way they shot. "Of 
fourteen members shooting on the Blank- 
Blank ponds, twelve had the limit by 
10 o'clock." Of the Weedy-Weedy club 
members "some obtained the limit in half 
an hour." Isn't this as bad as the old 
market shooting days? 

The writer has been guilty of market 
shooting. He has killed very many 
game birds, but never while shouting 
for the Other Man to be stopped in his 
shooting, or crying for laws that would 
shut everybody off but himself. Neither 
has he ever baited birds until they be- 
came as tame as barnyard chickens and 
required no more skill to kill than a hen 
coming to get her morning rations of 
corn, and then bragged of how many 
straight limits he had made. 

While the man inside the fence was 
doing so much slaughtering, the man 
outside, the fellow made of common clay, 
"hardly averaged a duck to a gun." 

The same authority, in giving a 
resume of the season, says: "Owing 
to the fact that some of the clubs do not 
keep records of their shooting, it is im- 
possible to complete an accurate data of 



the number of birds killed, . . . and 
the figures were better not ^published 
even if available.'* I should say not. 
No, indeed ! People would know then. 

Do away with the reserved land as 
shooting grounds. Give every one a 
chance alike, but confine water-fowl 
shooting to the lakes, the bays, the riv- 
ers, the big waters, and soon the birds 
will learn to care for themselves in the 
far West even as they do in the country 
of the big lakes. No one will kill the 
limit in half an hour, and the tally of a 
shooting club will be under 900 rather 
than over 9,000. Besides, the ducks will 
breed locally as in days of long ago, 
when from Minnesota to New Madrid 
thousands of mallard, teal, and wood 
duck were hatched and taught to fly each 
summer and fall. Even in the Calumet 
marshes, now a part of the city of Chi- 
cago, bags of fifty and sometimes a hun- 
dred home-raised ducks were made on 
opening days. 

Once more my authority tells me how 
the Bang-Bang Club wound up their 
season by having, on the final day, a mud- 
hen shoot — an annual event — at which 
it is estimated this time over four thou- 
sand mud hens were killed. What for? 
Sport? Game protection? And what 
was done with the dead birds? The 
coast mud hens are even less palatable 
than their Eastern kindred, and the wri- 
ter has been told that on none of these 
mud-hen shoots, which are somewhat 
common, are the killed birds retrieved — 
simply counted and left where they fall. 
Think what a day to talk about! Four 
thousand birds killed! What sport! 

"Those birds are no good; they are 
unfit to eat," says one, apologizing for 
the slaughter. 

True, and isn't that the very reason 
why they should be permitted to live? 
All they are fit for is to skim over the 
water ahead of a shooter, dragging their 
legs and splashing as they go; to cluck 
and gabble as they feed on the seeds of 
aquatic plants, to sun themselves on some 
grassy bank, and to live. Why should 
anyone grudge them that little? 

The writer once heard it estimated 
that in California there were upwards 
of 250 shooting clubs having enclosed or 
posted grounds and many of them bait- 

ing their ponds. A conservative esti- 
mate would be a kill of 2,000 birds to 
each club; add to this cripples that die 
and dead not gathered, and we have a 
total that the Kankakee in its palmy 
days never equaled. This is why almost 
the first law passed should be one which 
would protect the water-fowl from such 
protectors. Isn't it always the way with 
some people? "Bar the doors to every- 
body but us." 

Good Wardens Scarce 

The trouble with this game protection 
business always has been to get wardens 
who are honest and competent. In the 
old days, particularly so far as the large 
cities were concerned, many were neither, 
consequently the laws w T ere openly vio- 

A certain firm of game dealers, doing 
business in a large Northwestern city, 
advertised broadcast, "Ship us your 
game. We, and we only, can send game 
East, and so obtain a good price," which 
was true, all except the good price. This 
firm grew rich by standing in with the 
powers that be and crowded their rivals 
out of the game business. 

In another city the writer was packed 
and all ready for an all-winter shoot, 
when, early in December, he called on a 
middleman to whom he wished to sell 
his birds. 

"Yes, I'll take them," the dealer said, 
when the price was named without ask- 
ing, "How many?" 

"Isn't there any danger we will fill 
you up?" he was asked. 

"Not a bit of it," the man replied. 
"Send all you can kill or buy." Then 
said, "Come up the street a little way 
and I'll show you something." 

The "something" was a cold-storage 
room filled with boxes of quail. "I have 
twenty thousand dozen of those boys 
here and in another place. They will 
not last through the holidays," he said, 
"and I am in the market for as many 

"How about the closed season and the 
game warden?" I asked; then remarked, 
"They must stand you a little over two 
dollars a dozen." 

He nodded. 



"And it would put a crimp in your 
bank account if they were to be seized." 

He winked, then, laughing, said, 
"There is more danger of being struck 
by lightning. You see, we helped get 
the chief warden his job, and — but never 

In the spring he told me his "handle" 
for the winter was over fifty thousand 
dozen quail, besides other game in pro- 
portion, a single purchase of contraband 
from a northern Michigan dealer poli- 
tician being fifteen thousand partridges 
(ruffed grouse). 

The writer only has the man's word 
for actual numbers, but from what he 
saw and from what others told him he 
believes there was but little exaggera- 
tion, if any. He also thinks, in these 
later days, there is much less of this 
business done, yet undoubtedly some, par- 
ticularly in the East and Middle West. 
Where politics is supreme one is always 
suspicious of graft. Where an official 
obtains position, not from any great fit- 
ness, but because he helped elect some 
man, he would not be human unless he 
favored that man's friends. 

As a consequence, all game wardens 
and their deputies should be under civil 
service rules, should be appointed only 
after a competitive examination, and 
should hold office during good behavior. 
This done, they will owe their places 
neither to politics nor politicians and will 
be fearless in arresting the man with a 
pull, doing so as quickly as if he were 
only a plain, everyday citizen. 

A great benefit of having farmers on 
the side of game protection is that many 
less birds will be shipped from the small 
towns as cores for barrels of produce, or 
as poultry, eggs, and butter. Often kegs 
of butter have gone into Chicago in 
which the butter was but skin deep; 
cases of eggs of which only the two top 
layers ever saw a hen. The illicit game 
concealed therein sold to hotel or restau- 
rant and was served as "broiled snow- 
bird on toast," or as "baked prairie 

If farmers were deriving even a little 
financial benefit from the preservation of 
game, Mr. Country Dealer could get 
nothing to ship in this way, unless possi- 
bly some boy smuggled him a few birds 
unknown to Dad ; then the risk of ship- 
ping would be so great, it is doubtful if 
he would care to take the chance, for in 
a small town everybody knows what 
everybody else is doing and detection 
would seem almost certain. 

With the farmers working side by side 
with other forces for game protection, 
with- water-fowl shooting restricted to 
big water, with reserved lands made into 
homes and breeding-places for the birds, 
with a closed season over the entire na- 
tion for a short period of years, the bat- 
tle would be won, the problem solved, 
and the Feathered People of America 
show such rapid increase that in a few 
years they could again be shot, this time 
in moderation, and there would be sport 
for rich and poor alike, with no favored 
class to monopolize it all. 



T is difficult to make any one believe 
that a man could wrestle with a bull 
moose, grasping the great antlers in 
his hands, and come out alive, or 
even uninjured. It would not be 
difficult were one to see Colonel 

D. Douglas Young, retired, of King 

George's Canadian army, the man who 

did it. 

Colonel Young to-day weighs more 

than three hundred pounds, and he is 

not tall. Neither is he exactly fat. He 
is just big. When he was nineteen years 
old he weighed 230, and none of it was 
fat. He was all-English boxer at 
twenty and champion single-sticker of 
the mother isle. No man weighing 230 
could be those things and carry any sur- 
plus weight. He was an exceptional 
horseman, either in the saddle or with 
the reins, and has been shooting a life- 
time. He commanded the Canadian 



troops sent to maintain order on the 
Canadian side of the Alaskan line in '98 
and piloted his detachment through the 
White Horse Rapids without losing a 

To-day, after his retirement, the 
Colonel is not content to sit in a Toron- 
to club and sip his Scotch. He has been 
superintendent of Ontario's newest game 
preserve, Quetico Forest, and is now 
supervisor of fisheries in Western On- 

The Colonel wrestled the first moose 
he ever saw. It was not a pugnacious 
spirit that prompted the encounter. 
There was nothing else for the Colonel 
to do. 

Long ago, before there was thought of 
game preservation, Colonel Young was 
hunting caribou in Quebec. With a 
French-Canadian guide, he had gone 
north toward St. John's. There was no 
limit in those days, and when the Colo- 
nel saw a herd of caribou on a small 
lake, he shot six. He was a good shot, 
and he did it with nine cartridges, leav- 
ing one in his rifle. Hurrying across the 
lake after the retreating herd, he took 
off his coat, in the pockets of which were 
his extra shells. He reached the other 
side of the lake and entered the thick 
spruce. His guides had stopped by the 
dead caribou. 

As soon as he had stepped into the 
brush, Colonel Young saw his first 
moose. It was not more than fifty feet 
away. Colonel Young fired and wound- 
ed the bull, which immediately charged 

It was a typical North Quebec winter. 
The snow was six feet deep. The bull 
floundered toward the Colonel, who was 
trying to find another shell in the rifle 
or in his clothes. When he realized 
that his gun was empty, the bull was 
upon him, and there was nothing for 
him to do but grasp its antlers. 

The first pressure of the bull's rush 
was too much for one of the Colonel's 
snowshoes, and the frame snapped. He 

could not give ground, because he could 
not walk backward with the webs on 
his feet. He says that he did not realize 
the danger of the sharp hoofs of the fore- 
feet because he knew nothing of moose, 
and he ascribes his ultimate escape to the 
fact that the snow was too deep for the 
moose to strike successfully. Anyone 
who has seen the Colonel's mammoth 
arms can understand that they had some- 
thing to do with it. 

As soon as he grappled with the moose 
the Colonel began to call for his guide. 
He braced himself with his disabled 
snowshoes as best he could and held the 
moose away. But he knew that he could 
not last long under the strain and in- 
creased his calls for help. The guide 
did not come, and the Colonel felt his 
strength slipping. 

Then the saving idea came to him. 
Beside him was a spruce tree. Slowly 
the Colonel forced the moose sideways 
until the tree touched his right arm. 
Then, when the moose had momentarily 
eased the pressure, the Colonel released 
the antlers with his right hand, shot his 
arm around the tree and obtained a 
fresh grip. 

With the antlers pressed tightly 
against the solid tree trunk, holding the 
moose was comparatively easy work, and 
the Colonel put more energy into his 
calls. Leisurely the guide approached. 
When he pushed through the fringe of 
brush and saw the moose, he was too 
astonished to move until his employer 
had gasped directions. Then he cut the 
moose's throat with his hunting knife, 
and the Colonel released the antlers. 

Colonel Young does not believe he 
could have escaped as he did had the 
moose been able to get all four feet on 
solid ground. He says the six feet of 
snow made his success possible, although 
wrestling on big, awkward snowshoes 
is by no means easy. But a hogshead 
chest, Percheron shoulders, and arms 
like the legs of a 200-pound man played 
their part. 





Illustrated with Photographs 

, ^TOT often is it given most of us to take the trail Indian fashion 
^^ with the men who have matched their wits against keen- 
scented, quick-eyed, swift-footed animals all their lives. The In- 
dian does not hunt as does the white man, but no one can say that 
he does not give the game a chance. If anyone thinks otherwise, let 
him read Mr. Oskison's description of the region in which these 
red men hunt and note the steadfast persistence with which the 
trail was followed over all sorts of country. To add to the piquancy 
of the situation the principal figure in the party was a full-blooded 
Apache who was a stranger to his own people and their lives and 

me a letter from Chicago 
full of the most alluring 
phrases about Arizona — a 
letter I can heartily rec- 
ommend to promoters as 
a model to arouse the interest of the 
sophisticated. Hear some of the doctor's 
candied words: 

"We shall go to the Fort McDowell 

Agency, where we will see the Mohave 
Apaches — the real primitive Indians of 
the West. They will entertain us where 
we shall have a chance to fish, swim, and 
live out of doors. They will provide 
horses for us on a great hunt and sight- 
seeing trip among the most picturesque 
scenery of Arizona. One week or ten 
days, the Indians will show us how to 
hunt and show us where battles were 





fought between them and Pima scouts 
and soldiers forty years ago. . . . Every 
step of the way we will be guided by 
the Indians, all of them related to me." 

You may not know that the doctor is a 
full-blooded Apache, who was captured 
when a small boy and sold by his Pima 
captors to a white man; that this white 
man educated him; and that the doctor 
is one of the top-notch physicians of 
Chicago. Take my word for it, the doc- 
tor has learned how to prescribe for city- 
wearied folks! 

Four of us (the first to arrive) gath- 
ered in Phoenix, the nearest and most 
convenient railroad town, three days be- 
fore the hunting season opened. And 
next morning down from McDowell, 
thirty miles away, came the delegation 
of Apaches who were to act as our shop- 
ping guides when we started to outfit 
and be our hosts at McDowell — Char- 
ley, George, and Richard Dickens, and 
Yuma Frank, the chief. Charley had 
brought his two boys and his wife ; some- 
where Richard had picked up two 
friends, and out of the void sprang other 
welcoming Apaches who should have 
been at home under the sheltering wing 
of the agent. It was a brave party of four- 
teen Indians and four white men; and 
we entertained Phoenix by our marching 

and countermarching that first day, until 
the evening's moving picture show was 
over and the Indians went back to their 
wagons in a feed yard to sleep the sleep 
of the well-fed and princely entertained. 

Another day we waited in Phoenix 
for three others of our party, while the 
Indians hitched up and hauled every- 
thing we had bought out to the little 
store Charley Dickens keeps on the Mc- 
Dowell reservation. 

While buying supplies we asked Char- 
ley Dickens "How many Indians are 
going on the hunt with us?" And Char- 
ley, looking dreamily out of the window 
of the lawyer's office in which we had 
gathered to make out our list of things 
needed, studied a moment and replied: 

"I think it will be twelve, le's see — it 
will be me an' Richard an' George, an' 
Yuma Frank, an' Mike Burns, an' Cap'n 
Jim, an' Johnson, an' George Black, an' 
John Black, an' Jose, an' Frank Look, 
an' my brother-in-law, an' Tom Seama, 
an' Frank Richards, an' " 

"Charley!" interrupted Hayes, who 
was keeping tally with a pencil, "you've 
named fourteen already — how many 

"Oh, I guess fifteen, then, altogether," 
said Charley, abandoning his roll-call. 
And so we provided supplies for fifteen 
Indians and eight white men. One of 
the Phoenix newspapers said that we 
were to take the whole McDowell tribe 
into the hills on a great hunt — 270 men, 
women and children — and when we read 
that paper we laughed scornfully. In 
our minds, we were to be a quiet, busi- 
nesslike little party. 

Dr. Montezuma had told us that there 
was to be a dance the night before we 
started for the hills — an old-time Apache 
dance of welcome. And when darkness 
came on the day the pioneer four ar- 
rived at McDowell, and we had finished 
supper, a great fire was lighted in the 
middle of the dancing ground. I believe 
that every member of the tribe came 
to the dance — the last to arrive being the 
Indian policeman and his wife, the po- 
liceman driving the agent's car, with the 
agent sitting beside him, and his wife 
in the back seat with the wife of the 

Then all night long, to the rhythm of 





a beaten drum and the voices of young 
men singing a galloping, stirring chant, 
the Apaches danced. They danced their 
simple, primitive dance — two women, 
facing one way, on either side of one 
man who faced the other way, stepping 
rhythmically backwards and forwards. 
And at the end of each song, a war 
whoop from the young singers sitting on 
logs in the firelight. 

Now and then Yuma Frank, the chief, 
would employ the time between dances 
to talk to the groups of Indians gath- 
ered about the fire. All night the drum- 
ming and the dancing went on — un- 
weariedly, the women, advancing in 
couples, circled the fire at the beginning 
of each dance to tap a singer on the back 
— their signal that he was to be their 
partner. For it is the Apache woman 
who is head of the family, who chooses 
her man, who builds the shelter in which 
they shall live, and who leads in all social 

Heavy-bodied, straight-backed, their 
thick black hair hanging straight down 

over their ears and neck, the women 
wore their brightest shawls, their full- 
est skirts (cut to the heel), and their 
softest moccasins. And those who were 
too old to dance, or who were burdened 
with the care of small children, camped 
in the edge of the firelight, wrapped (it 
seemed to me inadequately) in quilts and 
blankets against the biting chill of the 
October night. Slender, wide-hatted, 
and full of a sort of shy gaiety, the men 
wandered in and out of the firelight. 
Except those who sang, they stuck close 
to their seats on the logs. 

Until ten o'clock we four visitors sat 
up to watch the dance. Then the 
Preacher Man — who has been a staunch 
Baptist for seventy-two years — remark- 
ing that he couldn't see much in that 
kind of dance — went to crawl into the 
blankets he had spread under a brush 
arbor built by Charley Dickens close to 
his store. Then "Gibby," the sybarite, 
put on his tourist cap and sank heavily 
upon his mattressed cot. But ''Monty" 
and I watched until after midnight, until 
after the roosters down at the camps of 
some of the Indians had crowed and be- 
come quiet again, before we gave up the 
vigil. And every time a dance ended 
and the singers gave their shrill whoop, 
I woke. And my brain throbbed with 
the memory of the drum beats and the 
stirring rhythm of the young men's songs. 

At daybreak, the Indians began to 
leave — wagons rattling away over the 
hard, dry roads, horsemen flashing among 
the mesquite trees, and those women who 
lived nearby footing it silently over the 
crest of the little mesa, their babies car- 
ried on their backs. 

McCutcheon and Brice had been de- 
layed again — Morgan and Hayes had 
stayed in Phoenix to bring them out. At 
noon they came, and they brought Grind- 
staf, also of Phoenix, with them. We 
were ready to start. 

There were nine of us, instead of eight 
— we must have another horse for 
"Grindy." Then it was discovered that 
the gray horse and the small mule pro- 
vided as pack animals could not carry the 
loads — of grub and bedding — piled up 
beside the store. The Indians ques- 
tioned "Gibby" courteously about his 



cot and mattress — and "Gibby" declared 
that he couldn't do without them. They 
"hefted" the suitcase Brice had added to 
the pile and looked inquiringly at its 
owner; Brice, too, stood pat. I think 
that if they had laid hands first on Mc- 
Cutcheon's war bag, he would have 
started a lightening campaign — I never 
saw a man on a camping trip more sub- 
missive and adaptable than John Mc- 
Cutcheon. But 

"Well, we get two more burros," said 
Charley Dickens, and brother Richard 
spurred away toward a field to round 
them up. 

That littlest burro had never bsen 
packed before — we watched the process 
with the simple enjoyment you see ex- 
pressed on the faces of the audience when 
the naughty boy pulls a chair from under 
grandma; at the end, the littlest burro 
was quite buried under a mountain of 
bed rolls, resigned to follow his elder 
brother who staggered under the weight 
of the cot, the suitcase, and McCutch- 
eon's war bag. 

Before we started, the camera fiends 
had to have their chance. We lined up 
— nine visiting hunters, and — fifteen In- 
dian hunters? Fifteen? — we counted 
'em — and there were tw T enty-seven ! 

"Say, Charley," began Hayes, but the 
rest of us wouldn't let him say it. The 
more the merrier — besides we couldn't 
have driven a single one of the twenty- 
seven back if w T e'd tried! 

"Well, I'll be darned!" said Hayes. 
He was thinking of the grub. But he 
needn't have worried on that score — be- 
hind the saddles of an even dozen of 
those Indians were tied grub sacks and 
cooking utensils. They meant to be with 
us, though they could not be of us; and 
we recalled what the Phoenix newspaper 
said with abated laughter. 

It was nearly four o'clock when we 
got away from Charley's store. We in- 
sisted upon the Preacher Man taking the 
lead on his gentle, flea-bitten roan. He 
is a little man, seventy-two years old, 
with graying chin whiskers, a smooth- 
shaven upper lip, a bald head, and the 
spirit of eternal youth gleaming in his 
eyes. He wore a straw hat — the kind 
you see bathers at the beach wearing to 
prevent sunburn; and he had turned up 


the brim in front. With a long straw 
in his mouth, a fierce red bandanna 
around his neck, elastics to hold up the 
sleeves of his flowing gray shirt, his vest 
flapping as he rode, the Preacher Man 
became the needed precipitate to bring 
all of us — visitors who had never met be- 
fore, and Indians who were shy — into a 
quick comradeship. 

"Don Quixote!" shouted "Gibby," 
and Morgan added: 

"Follow the tracks of the stout Rosin- 

It was quite dark and there was a 
threat of rain in the sky as we came to 
our first camp on the night of October 
first. Half a dozen of the Indians, and 
all of the pack animals, had got there be- 
fore us, for we had stopped often to 
shoot quail and adjust saddles. And 
blazing up beside a great log, illumina- 
ting the silver leaves of a giant cotton- 
wood, was a roaring fire. The fire 
showed us the exquisite beauty of the 
scene — an oval of packed river sand as 
big as a basket-ball field, shut in by thick 
willows. We unsaddled and unpacked; 
the Indians cooked supper; and we ar- 



ranged our beds in a great circle about 
the edge of the oval clearing. 

As we ate, the big wind began to blow, 
and there was thunder — in the fire's 
glow the tall cottonwood swayed and 
rattled like a million voices chattering. 
Out of the gloom, which began where 
the willows grew thick, our horses stuck 
their heads — only the littlest burro had 
been left untied, for there was no graz- 
ing, and we meant to make an early start 
next morning. 

John McCutcheon produced a box of 
cigars from his war bag — and Morgan 
led a procession past his sleeping place 
proffering the brand of friendship that 
won't rub off. Brice had cigarettes, and 
he passed them among the twenty-seven 
Indians. Twenty-seven of them ac- 
cepted, saving their bags of Bull Durham 

and packages of brown papers (a part of 
our supplies) against a time of greater 

The rain drove us under our blankets 
and tarps; and it was past midnight be- 
fore the clouds blew away and a great 
round moon sailed into view. I began 
to complain about an elbow I had inad- 
vertently thrust into a pool of water 
which seemed to be slowly freezing. I 
was interrupted by McCutcheon, lying 
close at my right, who spoke in a small, 
tired voice as he dried his hair with a 
towel : 

"Good Heavens, he complains about 
a wet elbow! Did you hear him, 
Brice?" Brice answered: 

"I'm wet and sore and wide awake — I 
never learned to sleep in the bath tub!" 

After that "Monty" joined sleepily in 



the post mortem ; Morgan, who had kept 
quite dry on his cot, said a heartless 
thing, and the Preacher Man reproved 
him in a tone which roused a sudden ex- 
plosion of mirth from Richard Dickens, 
lying on the other side of the fire from 
me. After that, the other Apaches, who 
had lain quiet in their water-soaked 
blankets, began a fusillade of good-na- 
tured comment. One of them rose to 
pile wood on the fire; and presently the 
rest were squatting on the sand, their 
backs to the bla^e, rolling cigarettes 
and chattering like a kindergarten. 
"Grindy" sat up, lit his pipe, and wanted 
to know what excuse "Gibby" had for 
sleeping and snoring on such a fine night 
of moonshine. 

So we waked "Gibby." A great vol- 
ume of meaningless swear words was 
flung at us as "Gibby" fell out of his 
comfortable cot to reach for a shoe. 
But Morgan had forstalled that move, 

and "Gibby" had to promise to be good 
before Morgan would restore his foot- 
gear. McCutcheon requested "Gibby" 
to tell us all about his ascent of Mount 
Ararat the summer before. "Gibby" is 
a far-traveler, and likes to tell about 
what he has seen. Richard Dickens ex- 
ploded again — that mirthful Apache has 
the quickest reaction of any joke-lover I 

Long before daybreak we had break- 
fasted ; our blankets were nearly dry by 
the time to pack up, for we held them 
before the blaze while the Indians cooked 
breakfast. One of my blankets was not 
a blanket, but a stuffed comforter cov- 
ered with thi' ', cheap print stuff of a 
wonderful design. A great corner of 
that comforter had got wet and made a 
perfect "transfer" of its design on a spare 
shirt I was cherishing in my bed roll. 
Morgan begged me to give that shirt to 
the Preacher Man ; he assured me that 





1 1 







Rosinante wouldn't shy at it, and argued 
that Don Quixote ought to be more 
brightly attired. Richard Dickens lis- 
tened to Morgan with commendable in- 
tentness, but he couldn't quite get the 
point; pushing ahead to show the 
Preacher Man the trail up a spur of the 
rocky hills, Richard managed to convey 
the impression that it wasn't fair to in- 
dulge in jokes he couldn't understand. 

That morning's ride took us up and 
up in the hills west of the Verde River, 
through luxuriant growths of cactus, 
over great stretches of cinder-brown lava 
rock, along a dim trail which dipped and 
rose with frightful suddenness, until, two 
hours after noon, we came to a corral 
and an unexpected spring. 

It was on this trail that we became 
acquainted with the "strawberry" cactus 
— a thick-stemmed bush from two to five 
feet in height which bears clusters of 
silver-colored balls, nearly as big as ten- 
nis balls, set thickly w T ith inch-and-a-half 
steel-hard spikes, barbed. 

Whenever a horse touched one of 
those brilliant balls, it seemed to spring 
away from the cluster w T ith a glad cry of 
relief, and sink its barbs deep in the flesh; 

and then w T e had to get down, hold our 
squirming horse with one hand and brush 
the "strawberry" off with a stout stick 
held in the other. After brushing off the 
terrible thing, we had to pick out, one 
by one, the deeply imbedded barbs it had 
left behind. If it were put up to me to 
contrive a purgatorv for my enemies, I 
should send them all on a thousand-year 
journey through the land of the "straw- 
berry" cactus. 

Richard Dickens was our guide; 
Yuma Frank and another Apache were 
piloting the gray horse and the excellent 
brown mule ahead of us; and John 
Black, Jose, "Sunny Jim," and one other 
were prodding the two burros behind us. 
Somewhere, scattered over the hills, were 
the rest of the twenty-seven, hunting 

It was about twelve o'clock, and we 
had dropped down into a pleasant stretch 
of fairly level ground. We had finally 
come out of the region of the "straw- 
berry" cactus, and the rain, which had 
commenced again soon after we left camp, 
had ceased. Richard Dickens pointed 
toward the top of a ridge two miles or 
more away, and called our attention to 
three figures on foot. He said that they 
were his brother Charley, his brother 
George, and Frank Look. He showed 
us their horses, standing tied to some 
small trees. 

"They got on track of one deer," said 
Richard. We watched them, tiny figures 
among the rocks, while we rode for half 
a mile perhaps, and then we heard the 
sudden, sharp crack of a rifle. Its echo 
came back from a hill at our right, whi- 
ning and shrill. Then another crack of a 
high-powered gun, and another and an- 
other — the hills were full of sound. 
Richard saw the deer quartering down 
the hillside, leaping the rocks and dodg- 
ing among the cactus like a gray ball of 
light. He turned his horse and spurred 
to a point where he would get a shot — 
though a long one — as the deer came 
down into the flat we had crossed. And 
as he spurred, he drew his rifle from its 
saddle scabbard ; he flung his reins to the 
ground, dropped to one knee, and fired. 

It was random firing, and Richard 
knew it. He stood up and began to yell 
to the group who were coming behind us 



with the two burros. Then the three 
Indians on the hillside who had jumped 
the deer joined in the yelling; and we, 
standing stupidly beside our horses, rifles 
held aimlessly, watched the deer climb 
the very hill we had lately descended 
while we thrilled at the wild, exultant 
yells of the Indians who were after it. 
None of us fired a shot! 

Just at the crest of the hill, the deer 
met the Indians who were with the bur- 
ros; it swerved sharply, and exposed its 
side to their fire. There were six or 
seven shots, then Richard shouted to us 
that the buck had been killed. We raced 
back, most of us on foot, and found John 
Black, Jose, "Sunny Jim," and Richard 
hard at work skinning. They said that 
John Black had killed the deer; and 
when the meat was parceled out, John 
took the skin for his own. 

Before the skinners had finished, and 
while the rest of us were getting back 
to our horses, more shots were fired by 
Charley and George Dickens and Frank 
Look ; another deer came rocketing down 
from the hillside; there was another 
fusillade from the hunters gathered 
about the slain deer; but that second 
deer got away without a scratch. The 
Apaches are not good rifle shots. 

At the spring, under the corral, we 
dismounted. It was two o'clock, and we 
were so hungry that we could have eaten 
saddle leather; some of us, too, were so 
tired and sleepy that we appealed to 
Charley Dickens to camp there for the 
night. But Charley watched the faint 
trickle of water from the spring for a 
moment, and shook his head. There 
would not be water enough for the 
horses. The best we could do was to 
unsaddle for an hour and eat. Fresh 
venison, Dutch oven bread, made with- 
out baking powder (the young man we 
had sent back for the forgotten baking 
powder had not yet caught up to us), 
and strong coffee — then some canned 
peaches. It was a delectable feast ! But 
"Gibby" wanted pie — he asked Richard 
Dickens, very earnestly, why there was 
no pie. For a moment Richard was 
apologetic, then he laughed. 

"I think you don't want pie, Gibson," 
said Richard accusingly, as he smiled up 
from his dishwashing. 


We saddled our horses again, rode 
over another rocky ridge, and then struck 
into a sandy wash, now bone-dry, which 
led us in an hour and a half to the Verde 
River. Then we were glad, indeed, 
that we had not camped overnight at the 

Where we struck it, the Verde is a 
broad, racing stream, almost clear; it 
runs between high cliffs set far back ; and 
between the cliffs and the river spread 
borders of willows and narrow orchards 
of mesquite. Under the lee of one of 
the rocky bluffs we made our camp, and 
until sunset we swam and fished. The 
Indians started target shooting, picking 
out the short, barrel-shaped cacti grow- 
ing in the rocks across the river to punc- 
ture with their shots; and for half an 
hour the river canyon rang with the 
sound of firing. 

Again that night there was rain. It 
swept upon us in a fury of thunder and 
lightning; but we all slept soundly, in- 
different to the occasional rivulets which 
found their way under the rubber blank- 
ets and the tarps we were learning to 
arrange properly. In the morning, after 
breakfast, we rolled up our beds, still 


wet, saddled our shivering horses, and 
started on a six hours' march to our per- 
manent camp. Until we left the Verde, 
two miles away, the rain followed and 
drenched us; but when we mounted up 
a zig-zag trail from the river canyon to 
a tongue of rocky land running back for 
miles and miles to where the Four Peaks 
rose blue and wooded, the sky cleared as 
if by magic. Quail called in the mes- 
quite far to the right of our trail; the 
sun came out warm; most of us had got 
over the worst of our saddle soreness; 
and we followed the tracks of the 
Preacher Man and his sturdy Rosinante 
with actual gaiety. 

That day we began to get some idea 
of the true character of the horses we 
rode. They were not horses, but moun- 
tain goats! Along trails two hand- 
breadths wide those ponies would trot, 
while we, gazing down across the rocks 
and cactus falling dizzily to the bottom 
of a gulch some hundreds of feet below, 
would hang desperately to our saddle 
horns. We were scared half to death, 
but afraid to show our fear. 

All of the rocks in the world must 
have been piled up on the hills of Ari- 
zona at one time, and those titans who 
were given the task of scattering them 
among other states and countries got 
tired long before their work was done. 
I believe that a corner of a huge boulder 


sticks out of every square foot of surface 
in all of the country we hunted over; 
and I know that if you ride or walk a 
mile you or your horse must kick and 
slide over ten thousand small stones. 

All over that country, too, the prickly 
pear, the palo verde, the cat's claw (a 
deliciously green and delicate looking 
bush with the most hellish stickers on it 
that I have ever felt), the iron wood, the 
mesquite, and an infinite variety of cacti 
struggle for footing in the scant loam of 
the hillsides. Underneath these spiny 
growths, the succulent mountain grass 
grows; and it is to crop this grass that 
the deer leave the high mountains around 
the Four Peaks when the autumn comes. 

Just when it began to be plain to all 
of us first-time visitors that nowhere east 
of the Verd'e lies a single square yard of 
level country, our horses scrambled out 
of a sandy wash to the top of a tiny 
plateau. Mesquite trees dotted it, like a 
farmer's back-yard orchard, and it was 
tramped bare by cattle. Beyond the 
plateau, a few yards up the wash, pools 
of clear spring water shone in the sun- 

Charley Dickens smiled a relieved 
smile when he saw us all (I mean, of 
course, the nine visitors) assembled under 
the shade of the mesquite thicket. It 
was to be our permanent camp — 
"Monty" told us so as soon as he saw 



George Dickens begin to scoop a hole in 
the moist sand convenient to the fire 
Jose promptly built. 

That day we had ridden ahead of all 
the pack animals, but when we came to 
our camping place we supposed that they 
were following close behind. So we sat 
down to wait for the grub with all the 
sweet patience of harried, famished 
wolves. One by one, the Indians drifted 
in from their detours across the hills, 
and they formed in small groups, each 
building its own fire. From their saddle 
packs they began to dig pieces of venison, 
almost black from its quick drying of a 
day, and stores of mesquite bean meal. 
"Monty" wandered among them, pick- 
ing up a thick hunk of meat and a bowl 
of meal. He came back to us, his round, 
dark face shining with triumph. 

Plastering his slice of venison on a 
bed of live coals, "Monty" began to tell 
us how good the mesquite meal was. I 
asked for a taste and "Monty" offered 
a generous spoonful. Before I could get 
it all out of my mouth, I had made up 
my mind that I didn't like it. I wasn't 
in doubt about that at all. Mesquite 
bean meal (made from the dried bean 
that grows on the mesquite trees, ground 
by hand, and mixed with water) has all 
of the repulsiveness of taste — and some- 
thing of the same sicky sweetness — of a 

Chinese dish I once tasted in a restau- 
rant of New York's Chinatown. 
"Monty" assured me that the Apaches 
could live on this meal for weeks at a 
time and never lose strength. 

As he turned his piece of venison on 
the coals, stooping heavily to do the trick 
with his fingers, "Monty" told us about 
his own boyhood among these hills, about 
how the old-time Apaches lived .wholly 
on deer meat and the products of the 
trees and plants growing in the moun- 
tains and along the rivers. 

"Monty" is a wonderful word-painter 
of the impressionist (I'm not sure that 
he's not of the futurist) school. We 
listened to his poetic improvisations con- 
cerning the old care-free life of his peo- 
ple until we began to believe that civili- 
zation is a horrid mistake. But when 
"Monty" had finished his broiled veni- 
son and his bowl of meal, he sought the 
shade of a mesquite, lay down and drew 
his hat over his eyes, and let us under- 
stand that he meant to get some rest. 

It was nearly three o'clock — and we 
had waited for the pack animals for two 
hours. Released from the spell of 
"Monty's" oratory, we turned savage 
questions upon Charley Dickens; and 
Charley walked down the wash fifty- 
yards to listen for the coming of the 
pack mules. Morgan then appealed to 




Richard to go and find them and save 
us from starvation. Morgan was low 
enough to remind Richard, at this time, 
of the pair of eighteen-dollar chaps he 
had given him. So Richard caught his 
horse and rede away. Ten minutes later 
he came back accompanied by Mike 
Burns, Yuma Frank, and the four pack 
animals. Richard was laughing. 

''What's the joke, Dick?" asked "Gib- 
by." "Did those fellows stop to make 
some pie?" 

"Naw!" and Richard broke out laugh- 
ing again. Then Mike Burns, who is 
a graduate of a Kansas normal school, 
told us in forceful English how he had 
accidentally come upon the four pack 
animals in the bottom of a gulch w T ith 
their feet sticking up in the air. And an 
hour later, when George Black and the 
other two young men who had been in 
charge of the pack train came into camp 
with a deer, we understood. 

Across the wash the Preacher Man 
discovered a cave, the bottom of which 
was just big enough to hold his blankets, 
spread out, and which offered a natural 
shelf for the disposal of the contents of 
the handbag he had carried slung from 
his saddle horn. 

Before we crawled into our blankets 
that night, two other deer were brought 
to camp — Johnson and Frank Richards 
had killed them. Somewhere back in the 
hills, each of those wiry, keen-eyed 
Apaches had come upon fresh deer tracks, 
had tied his horse, had followed on foot 
until the chance to shoot arrived, had 
skinned the deer, had carried it back to 
his horse, and had come silently into 
camp to eat supper and go to bed. 

But that night we would not have it 
so — we gathered round the three who 
had killed — Johnson, George Black, and 
Frank Richards — to beg for details. 
Just where were the tracks found ? How 
long was the deer followed ? How many 
shots were fired ? How far from their 
horses were they when the deer was 
killed? Charley Dickens was our inter- 
preter; and at first he smiled tolerantly 
when we asked a question. But presently 
he and the hunters became actually inter- 
ested in recalling the incidents. Not by 
what they said through Charley Dickens 
did the successful hunters stir us, but 

there was something in the droop of their 
tired bodies and the gleam of their eyes 
which gave us to understand that hunt- 
ing over those hills, following a deer un- 
til you get him, is a thrilling experience. 

"Three deer to-day — by golly, that's 
good!" I think that was my classic com- 
ment; and from what the others said I 
judged that they were equally elated and 
incoherent over the good luck of the 

"Who wants to go out with the hunt- 
ers in the morning?" "Monty" inquired 
before we dropped to sleep. 

"If I thought I could keep up I'd like 
to try it," answered McCutcheon. "How 
about 30U, Brice?" 

"I'd like to try it," said Brice. 

"Count me in, 'Monty,' " I urged. 
But to all of us I know that "if" voiced 
by McCutcheon loomed large. Coming 
to camp, we had followed a trail long 
used by the Indians and the cowboys 
when they rode into the hills; we had 
dismounted at times to lead our horses 
down and up grades that had not troub- 
led the Indian riders in the least; and 
the walking we had done had shown us 
the awfulness of the going. Still, we 
three said that we'd like to try to fol- 
low the hunters. 

As for Morgan, "Gibby," "Grindy," 
"Monty," Hayes, and the Preacher Man, 
the answer was "no." Only Hayes ven- 
tured to excuse himself — he had once 
strained his heart climbing, and he must 
be careful not to do it again. I am 
sorry, now, that we did not urge the 
Preacher Man to go out, for I'm sure 
that he would have got us out of our 
blankets in time. 

As it was, we became dimly aware 
of sounds in the camp while it was still 
dark. The firelight flickered in our 
faces, and we heard the rattle of tin 
plates and voices subdued. It was cold, 
with the still cold of a frostbound world 
wrapped in darkness ; and we were very 
comfortable under our blankets! 

With dawn came courage to crawl out 
and stagger down to one of the pools 
in the sandy wash to bathe faces and 
hands. Beside the fire we found 1 our 
breakfast cooked and waiting for us; 
but every Indian had gone. 
( To be continued) 



Just Take Almost Any Old Kind of a Box and Then Follow the 

Author s Specifications 


MADE my tackle box last summer, 
working mostly on the cottage 
porch, and having no bench but a 
camp chair or a corner of the dining 
table. Proud as I am of the result, 
I never open the lid without seem- 
to hear faint feminine echoes of 
"Such a litter," and "What a place to 
get about in" ; and I realize that the job 
is one better suited for the workshop and 
for that period in the late winter months 
when an unnamed something drives 
every angler to the revision and improve- 
ment of his outfit. It is for those who 
may undertake a similar task at a more 
seasonable time that I give my experi- 

The object of building one's own 
tackle box is to have it fit exactly one's 
individual needs. I give the details of 
mine, not because any one else will wish 
to copy them, but because they may serve 
as hints and points of departure for mak- 
ing other designs. 

In its primitive state my box was a 
rough board affair, 7 x 9 x 12 inches in- 
side measurement. I found it in the 
Doctor's garage, and the Doctor, who 
has built himself a magnificent tackle 
case of leather and precious woods, con- 
descendingly gave it to me when I hinted 
that it might be made into something 
that would meet my modest needs. Like 
many packing boxes made for shipping 
bottles, it had dovetailed corners, and 
these were probably useful in keeping the 
parts square and true during the process 
of construction. After the partitions are 
in and the canvas cover is on any well- 
nailed box would be strong enough. 

The first step, after smoothing up con- 
spicuous roughnesses, was to nail on the 
cover board securely and to mark where 
the box was to be sawn apart. I did this 

so as to make two sections — a bottom 
section 4^2 inches deep for trays, reel 
compartments, etc., and a recessed top 
section 2^4 inches deep for tools, snelled 
hooks, and other light tackle. After 
marking the box all around, I sawed 
through the side intended for the back 
and screwed on the hinges, making sure 
that the center of the hinge pin came 
just over the saw kerf. I also screwed 
on the hasp in front, and then finished 
the sawing. Hinges and hasp were then 
removed until the two sections of the 
box were finished. Then the screw 
holes were found by pricking through 
the canvas covering with a needle, the 
fittings were replaced, and the box 
opened and closed perfectly true. 

I have found by experience that it is 
not always easy to get equally good re- 
sults by putting on hinges after a box 
is in two parts. Hinges, hasps, escutch- 
eon pins, and other small brass fittings 
may be procured at most hardware stores 
and five and ten cent stores and of mail 
order houses. In order to secure a fine 
appearance it is best to refinish and re- 
lacquer them, as described below. 

The inner edge of the sides of the box 
should be beveled a trifle, as shown in 
Figure 4, to make room for the heads 
of the brass nails or escutcheon pins that 
hold the edges of the canvas covering. 
At the outside edge, where the sides are 
not beveled, the canvas just about fills 
the saw kerf, making a good joint when 
the box is closed. 

Next, both top and bottom sections 
should be lined with whatever cloth is 
selected for the purpose, firmly glued in. 
I used a smooth linen such as is some- 
times employed in lining suit-cases. This 
looks well when first put in, but soils 
easily and does not hold the glue quite 




8 C 

T T rT 




so well as a more loosely woven fabric. 
Possibly a man whose work was not giv- 
ing offense to the domestic powers could 
secure helpful feminine advice on choice 
of material. 

The bottom and the top sections of 
the box must now be treated separately. 
In my box the whole top of the bottom 
section is occupied by a shallow tray, 
7/s inches deep. The plan of this is 
shown in Figure 3. Below this are three 
reel compartments, a smaller deep tray, 
and other compartments as shown in the 
accompanying diagrams, Figures 1 and 
2. The permanent partitions, between 
compartments A, B, and C, Figure 2, 
are made of three-ply birch veneer 3/16 
inch thick, and are fastened in place with 
brads driven from the outside of the box. 
They should, of course, be filled and 
varnished before they are 
finally put in place. 

For the trays I used 
mahogany and brass bot- 
toms — an effective com- 
bination, though work- 
ing mahogany is not al- 
ways conducive to keep- 
ing one's temper. The 
sides and main partitions 
of the trays are Y\ or 
3/16 inch thick, the 
smaller divisions y%. 
When it came to this 
point I was fortunate 
enough to have the use 
of a friend's trimmer for 
an hour or two, and 
with this I cut miter 
joints. These are to be 

preferred, but if a good miter- 
cutting apparatus is not avail- 
able a cut-in corner, as shown 
in the diagram, Fig. 6, answers 
* well. The inside partitions are 
gained or notched into the sides 
about 1/16 inch, and glued. 

To make the gains quickly 
and neatly take the try-square 
and a sharp penknife and rule 
or cut squarely across at each 
side of the gain. Take out a 
chip by a slanting stroke from 
the middle of the gain to the 
bottom of this cut. Repeat the 
process until the gains are deep 
enough at the edges, and clean out the 
center with a narrow chisel. 

In order that small articles may be 
easily picked out of the compartments it 
is necessary that the bottom of the tray 
curve upward at the edges like that of 
a cash drawer. The outer lower cor- 
ners of the crosswise partitions are 
rounded off. The thin brass bottom is 
bent upward around these curved ends 
of the partitions, and the edge of the 
brass slips into a shallow groove in the 
strip that forms the outside of the tray. 
The arrangement may be seen from Fig- 
ure 5. 

After the woodwork is put together 
make very carefully a stiff paper pattern 
of a bottom that will exactly fit, and cut 
the brass by this. Spring the bottom into 
place, first shaping the edges, if neces- 




sary, by bending them around 
a base ball bat, an oar, or 
something of similar shape. 
When it is exactly in position 
scratch with a knife blade or 
a fine point along the inner 
edge of the end pieces and 
along both sides of the parti- 
tions. Remove the bottom 
and punch holes between 
these parallel scratches that 
indicate the position of the 
partitions. After the wood- 
work is varnished and the 
brass is lacquered replace the 
bottom, being sure to get it 
in exactly the original posi- 
tion, and fasten with Y% inch 

The wood should be filled before be- 
ing varnished. Patent wood fillers may 
be bought in various colors and applied 
according to the maker's directions, but 
for small jobs I have found it more satis- 
factory to mix a filler of silex. Silex is 
a white mineral powder used by dentists 
in some of their mysterious processes and 
is inexpensive. To make a filler, mix 
the powder to a smooth paste with lin- 
seed oil, thin with turpentine, and for 
dark woods color with mahogany stain, 
or a bit of artist's oil colors. Brush well 
into the wood, letting the final brushing 
be crosswise, in order that the bristles 
may not wipe the paste out of the grain. 

After the filler is fairly stiff, but be- 
fore it sets hard, remove all surplus with 
a rough cloth, rubbing crosswise of the 
grain. Then varnish, rubbing down be- 
tween coats with number 00 sand- 
paper, and taking the cheap-looking gloss 
off the last coat with a little pumice- 
stone and oil. 

To give brass the effective "brush fin- 
ish" take number or 00 sandpaper and 

. ^ 

. . * 

H D 




' 9 • 



. V 









ft « 








rub, always with parallel strokes, and 
not too hard until the metal is bright 
and marked with fine uniform lines or 
striations. Lacquer may be obtained of 
an instrument maker or a dealer in elec- 
trical fixtures. My own success in ap- 
plying it hardly warrants me in giving 
advice to others. On small articles, such 
as hinges, it is easy to get satisfactory 
results, but on a large sheet like a tray 
bottom it is hard to avoid a patchy effect. 
I have learned, however, that the lacquer 
should be put on rapidly with a flowing 
stroke of a good quality camel's-hair 
brush ; and that no matter how uneven 
the work looks, an attempt at retouching 
invariably makes it worse. 

It is necessary that the recessed top 
section of the box be fitted with a lid 
which fits flush with the bottom edges, 
and which when the box is closed forms 
a tight cover to the tray compartments. 
For this I used three-ply birch veneering 
3/16 inch thick. In order that this 
may swing properly the backs of the 
hinges are screwed to the face of the lid, 
as shown in the diagram, 
fy Figure 9, and gains are 

cut in the edge to close 
over the other part of the 
hinge. A simple friction 
catch holds the lid in 
place, and a knob, which 
can project into one of the 
tray compartments, serves 
as a pull. The face of 
the lid is filled and var- 





nished. The inside, or top, is covered 
with linen canvas glued on, and on this 
are tacked loops of linen tape for hold- 
ing pliers, scissors, screwdriver, one- 
drop oil-can, and the other tools which 
the angler wants instantly at hand. 

Narrow strips of brass with the ends 
bent up at right angles and drilled with 
holes to form bearings hold bobbins of 
a pattern that can be filled on the family 
sewing machine, and these carry colored 
silks for windings. (See Figure 11.) 
A narrow strip of wood 3/16 inch thick 
(L, Figure 1; D, Figure 9) fitted 
around the outside keeps the edges of the 
canvas from fraying and makes a sort of 
shallow tray, so that tools cannot slip too 
far in their loops and interfere with the 
closing of the box. 

To a man who has been annoyed by 
the tangling and curling of snells on 
hooks the most comfortable feature of 
the box is a leaf made after the general 
style of a Bray fly book. For this I 
tried to get thick sheet celluloid, but 
failing took what is perhaps equally 
good, a sheet of press or binder's board, 
covered with a smooth buckram and 
varnished. This is about an inch nar- 
rower than the cover and is hinged to a 
3/16 inch strip of wood J4, inch 

wide, which is fastened at the 
back of the cover, about 24 inch 
inside the lid. (See G, K, Fig- 
ure 1.) This arrangement al- 
lows the leaf to open out over 
the lid. 

The mountings of this sheet 
are of brass, and are alike on 
both sides, the same rivets pass- 
ing through opposite fixtures. 
The general plan is shown in 
Figure 7. The strips at each 
end into which hooks are to 
be caught are made by taking 
strips of brass x /i or $/% inch 

wide, punching a row of holes through 
the middle, and cutting lengthwise 
through the centers of the holes. (See 
Figure 10.) Some finishing with a file 
is of course necessary. To make the 
springs in which the snells are drawn is 
needed a spool of No. 26 or No. 28 brass 
spring wire, a vise, two blocks of soft 
wood, and a rod or mandrel with a hole 
at one end through which the wire can 
be thrust. I got satisfactory results with 
a cast-iron vise bought at a ten-cent 
store and the ramrod of a .22 rifle, but 
a mandrel of smooth steel rod and a 
heavier vise would be preferable. 

To wind the spring, stick the end of 
the wire through the hole in the mandrel, 
give it a turn or two to hold it, and 
place mandrel and wire lengthwise be- 
tween the blocks of wood in the vise. 
Turn the rod, tightening the vise as 
mandrel and coil sink into the wood, and 
being sure that the wire runs smoothly 
and squarely between the blocks. If it 
runs at even a slight angle the result 
will be an open, not a closed spring. 
Once the coil is properly started and the 
vise well tightened up there is nothing 
to do but to keep turning and feeding 
in the wire. 

These springs are strung on strips of 
brass y% inch wide or a little less, with 
holes drilled at the ends and in the mid- 
dle for rivets. Since the rivets pass 
through a pair of strips, one on each side 
the sheet, the holes should be accurately 
placed. In the Bray fly book the strips 
are bent down where the rivets go 
through, but I found it easier to block 
up with rings or washers made by cut- 





ting links from a small brass 
chain. Be sure that the 
blocking is high enough to 
allow the spring to slip easily 
on the strip. A similar con- 
struction is shown in the dia- 
gram of a spinner-holder 
(Figure 12). 

Cut the springs about %. 
inch shorter than the distance 
between rivets in order to 
allow for spreading when 
snells are drawn in. Ordi- 
nary brass paper fasteners 
may be used to attach the 
hinges to the binder's board. 
I used four lines of springs, 
and notched strips for hooks 
at each end. The sheet, if 
completely filled, would hold six dozen 
snelled hooks, each of which is in plain 
sight, and can be instantly removed, or 
almost instantly replaced, with one hand. 
The inside of the top board of the box, 
behind the sheet for hooks is arranged to 
hold line winders, scales, wooden min- 
nows, small spinners, etc. The general 
plan may be seen from the diagram, Fig- 
ure 8. The compartments for wooden 
minnows have wooden sides J^ inch 
wide bradded to the outside of the box, 
and the front is of transparent celluloid 
such as is used for windows in automo- 
bile tops. The line winders are strips 
of ^ -inch mahogany notched at the 
ends to hold the line. The catches that 
hold them in place are the brass right 
angle screw hooks, to be bought at any 
hardware or ten-cent store, turned into 
the wood at such distance apart that the 





end of the horizontal just touches the 
next upright. To remove the winder 
give the catch a quarter turn. The 
holders for small spoons, etc., are made 
from the brass scraps left from the leaf 
for hooks. Sections of the coiled spring 
about an inch long are threaded on y%- 
inch brass strips 2 l / 2 or 3 inches long, as 
shown in Figure 12. 

To fasten the fixed end straighten out 
a little of the spring and heat it red hot 
for a moment to anneal it, and make it 
flexible. To prevent spoiling the temper 
of the rest of the spring slip a thin slice 
of raw potato, apple, or other moist sub- 
stance over the free end to guard the coil 
from the flame. Give this soft end two 
or three turns, making a little coil 
through which the brad or escutcheon 
pin that holds one end of the strip in 
place can pass. This coil serves the 















double purpose of a blocking for the 
strip and a fastening for the end of the 

Bend the other end of the spring to 
form a hook and set in line with the strip 
a small brass screw hook or angle. The 
spinner is stretched between this and the 
hook on the spring, is always in place, 
and is instantly detached. 

As soon as the partitions which re- 
quire nailing from the outside are all in, 
the box may be covered with canvas. 
A light duck, about six-ounce, is best. 
Set it in white lead mixed with oil to 
the consistency of very thick cream, and 
spread on the wood liberally. I rubbed 
it with the flat of my hand until I could 
see the white lead oozing through the 
cloth ; but the cuticle would hardly have 
lasted for a much larger box, and the 
Doctor, who has had experience in cov- 
ering canoes, tells me I should have used a 
rubber roller such as is made for mount- 
ing photographs. Bring the edge of the 
canvas up over the edges which come 
together when the box closes. Hold 
these and other doubtful places with 
small tacks, to be removed and replaced 
later with brass escutcheon pins. 

After the white lead has set for a few 
days the canvas may be finished with 
two or three coats of a paint made by 
mixing white lead, the desired tinting 
color, and varnish. Green seemed the 
best color to match with the brass handle 
and protecting corners which were to be 
added later. For the canvas as well as 
for the wood work I used a quick-drying 
spar varnish, which a friend enthusias- 
tically recommended this summer. 

Of my various attempts at "making 
things" I enjoyed most the building of 
this tackle box, partly, I think, because 
the different operations of cabinet work, 
brass work, canvas covering, and finish- 
ing afforded so great a variety. Al- 
though I am the veriest amateur and 
have but a scant equipment of tools I 
found most parts of the work easy. As 
to the result — its practical convenience 
was a constant joy through the rest of 
the fishing season. It looks well, if I 
do say it. As it neared completion the 
domestic mutterings began to be mingled 
with hints about work boxes and silver 
cabinets; and even the Doctor has pre- 
tended to be envious of some of my 



Their Good and Bad Points and the Real Nature of the Problems 
That Experts Are Trying to Solve 

N 1870 there was issued to every 
German soldier a queer, yellow, 
sausage-shaped contrivance that held 
within its paper wrapper what looked 
and felt like a short stick of dyna- 
mite. No, it was not a bomb nor a 
hand grenade. It was just a pound of 
compressed dry pea soup. This was 

guaranteed to support a man's strength 
for one day, without any other aliment 
whatever. The soldier was ordered to 
keep this roll of soup about him at all 
times, and never to use it until there was 
no other food to be had. The official 
name of the thing was erbswurst (pro- 
nounced airbs-voorst) which means pea 



sausage. Within a few months it became 
famous as the "iron ration" of the 
Franco-Prussian war. 

Our sportsmen over here are well ac- 
quainted with erbswurst. It is their last 
call to supper when they have had no 
dinner and see slight prospect of break- 
fast. Besides, it is the lazy man's prop 
on rainy days, and the standby of inex- 
perienced cooks. 

Nobody can spoil erbswurst in the 
cooking, unless he goes away and lets it 
burn. All you do is start a quart of 
water boiling, tear off the cover from a 
quarter-pound roll of "dynamite soup," 
crumble the stuff finely into the water 
with your fingers, and boil for fifteen 
or twenty minutes, stirring a few times 
to avoid lumps. Then let the mess cool, 
and go to it. 

It never spoils, never gets any punkier 
than it was at the beginning. The stick 
of erbswurst that you left undetected in 
the seventh pocket of your hunting coat, 
last year, will be just as good when you 
discover it again this year. Mice won't 
gnaw it; bugs can't get at it; moisture 
can't feaze it. I have used rolls that 
had lain so long in damp places that 
they were all mouldy outside, yet the 
food within was neither worse nor better 
than before. 

A pound of erbswurst, costing thirty- 
two cents, is about all a man can eat in 
three meals straight. Cheap enough, 
and light enough, and compact enough, 
God wot. However this little boon has 
a string attached. Erbswurst tastes 
pretty good to a hungry man in the 
woods as a hot noonday snack, now and 
then. It is not appetizing as a sole main- 
stay for supper on the same day. Next 
morning, supposing you have missed con- 
nections with camp, and have nothing 
but the third of that erbswurst, you will 
down it amid tempests and storms of 
your own raising. And thenceforth, no 
matter what fleshpots you may fall upon, 
you will taste dynamite soup for a week. 

In its native land, this iron ration is^ 
no longer popular — I am told that it has" 
been thrown out of the German army. 
Over here, we benighted wights keep on 
using it, in emergencies, simply because 
we know of no better substitute, or 
because it is the easiest thing of its kind 

to be found on the market. We all wish 
to discover a ready-made ration as light 
and compact as erbswurst, as incorrupti- 
ble and cheap, but one that would be 
savory at the second and third eating, 
and polite to our insides (which dyna- 
mite soup is not). 

Good Emergency Rations Hard to Find 

Now I am not about to offer a new 
invention, nor introduce some wonderful 
good grub that has lately arrived from 
abroad. At the present time, I believe, 
all armies have discarded all the emer- 
gency rations that they have tried. And 
yet all of them are searching for a bet- 
ter one. Which goes to prove that a 
satisfactory thing of this sort is most de- 
sirable, but the hardest thing in the 
world for a commissariat to find. We 
wilderness prowlers join heartily in 
praying that somebody would find it ; for 
we, too, like the soldiery, may be cut off 
from supplies, no telling when, and with 
the added dilemma, perhaps, of being 
lost and alone in the "big sticks." 

So it is quite worth while to review the 
best that has been done along this line, 
show wherein the most promising experi- 
ments failed, and restate the problem 
anew — then let fresh inventive genius 
tackle it. And a few suggestions may 
not be out of place. 

Beginning again with erbswurst, as 
the prototype of such foods: it is com- 
posed of pea meal mixed with a very 
little fat pork and some salt, cooked, so 
treated as to prevent decay, desiccated, 
and compressed into rolls of various sizes. 
It is about the same thing as baked beans 
would be if they were dried and pow- 
dered, except that it tastes different and 
it contains much less fat. I understand 
that the original erbswurst, as prepared 
by its inventor, Grunberg, included a 
good proportion of fat; but the article 
sold nowadays has so little of this valu- 
able component (by analysis only 
3.08%) that you can scarce detect it. 

Theoretically this pea soup is highly 
nutritious, though less fit for continuous 
use as a sole diet than baked beans, even 
though the latter were desiccated. Prac- 
tically it soon palls on the palate, up- 
sets the stomach, and causes flatulent 



dyspepsia or other disorders of the diges- 
tive tract. 

The British army tried it, and Tom- 
my Atkins let out a howl that reached 
from South Africa to London. The 
War Office replaced it with another 
German invention, Kopf's soup, which 
also had pea meal for its basis but had a 
higher content of fat (17.25%). This 
was superior in potential energy, but the 
after effects were similar to those of erbs- 
wurst. It was plain that an exclusive 
diet, if only for a day or two, of 
legumes and fat would soon put a man 
to the bad. England discarded the iron 
ration and placated Tommy with jam — 
a wise move, as we shall see. 

In 1900 a new kind of emergency ra- 
tion was introduced in our own army. 
This was made up of eight ounces of a 
meat-and-cereal powder, four ounces of 
sweet chocolate, and some salt and pep- 
per, all put up in a tin can eight inches 
long and thin enough to slip easily into 
one's pocket. This pound of food was 
calculated to subsist a man in full 
strength and vigor for one day. Details 
of its preparation are here copied from 
official sources. 

A Pound of Food 

"The chocolate component consists of 
equal weights of pure chocolate and pure 
sugar molded into cakes of one and one- 
third ounces each. Three of these go 
into the day's ration. 

"The bread and meat component con- 
sists of: 

" ( 1 ) Fresh lean beaf free from visible 
fat and sinew, ground in a neat grinder 
and desiccated so as to contain five per 
cent or less of moisture, the heat never 
being allowed to cook it in the slightest 
degree. The dried product is then re- 
duced to powder and carefully sifted 
through a fine-meshed sieve, the resulting 
flour being the meat component. 

"(2) Cooked kiln-dried wheat, the 
outer bran removed, is parched and then 
ground to a coarse powder. This yields 
the bread component. Sixteen parts of 
the meat, thirty-two parts of the bread, 
and one part of common salt, all by 
weight, are thoroughly mixed in such 
small quantities as to be entirely homo- 

geneous and compressed into four-ounce 
cakes. Three of these go into the day's 
ration. The bread and meat may be 
eaten dry, or be stirred in cold water 
and eaten : or one cake may be boiled for 
five minutes in three pints of water, and 
seasoned; or one cake may be boiled for 
five minutes in one pint of water to 
make a thick porridge and be eaten hot 
or cold. When cold it may be sliced, and, 
if fat is available, may be fried. Three- 
fourths of an ounce of salt and one 
gramme of pepper are in the can for 

At first glance it might seem that the 
meat and bread components of this ra- 
tion were essentially the same as the 
jerked venison and rockahominy (pul- 
verized parched corn) that were the 
mainstays of our Indians and white 
frontiersmen in olden times. And it is 
quite likely that the inventors had those 
primitive foods in mind, seeking only to 
condense them still further without im- 
pairing their famous nutritive values. 
Practically, however, there is little re- 
semblance. "Jerky" retains much of the 
meat juice, which gives it its pleasant 
flavor. Desiccated meat contains no 
juice, and its taste is altogether different. 
Pulverized, parched wheat is a sort of 
rockahominy, but in this case it was first 
cooked, then parched, and the flavor is 

Finally the meat powder and grain 
powder were mixed and sifted into a 
homogeneous mass, compressed, and 
sealed up in an air-tight tin. One need 
not even taste such a product to know 
that it could not possibly satisfy the 
palate like the old-time preparations. 

The emergency ration gave satisfac- 
tion for a time, but eventually there were 
many complaints that it was indigestible. 
There had been no such trouble with 
the food when it was fresh, but our army 
has seldom had any actual use for it, and 
the stuff deteriorated after long storage. 
Of course, in time of a big war this ob- 
jection would vanish. The worst fault 
that developed was not in the food itself 
but in the can that held it, which was 
so thick and heavy that it made the gross 
weight of the article almost as great as 
that of the regular haversack ration, 
which cost much less and was more 



palatable. For these reasons our emer- 
gency ration was ordered discontinued 
last year. Still the project has not been 
given up. Food experts of the Depart- 
ment of Agriculture are now at work 
trying to produce something that will 
meet all requirements. 

As I said long ago, in my Camping 
and Woodcraft, the problem of an emer- 
gency ration is not merely one of con- 
densing the utmost nutriment into the 
least bulk and weight. One cannot live 
on butter or peanuts alone, however high 
their caloric value may be. The stuff 
must be digestible: it must neither nause- 
ate nor clog the system. When a man 
is faint from hunger (and that is the 
only time he will ever need an emer- 
gency ration) his stomach must not be 
forced to any uncommon stunts. And 
so I hold that a half ration of palatable 
food that is readily assimilated does 
more good than a full quota of stuff 
that taxes a man's gastric strength or dis- 
orders his bowels. And there is a good 
deal to be said for mere palatability. 
Food that tastes bad is bad, for nobody 
can work well on it. 

Of course, an emergency ration is not 
intended to be used long at a time. It 
is not meant to interchange with the 
regular reserve ration of hard bread, 
bacon, or preserved meat, dried vege- 
tables, coffee, sugar, and salt, that sol- 
diers carry on their persons during a 
campaign. The iron ration proper is a 
minimum bulk and weight of unspoilable 
food that is complete in itself, packed in 
a waterproof and insect-proof cover, and 
it is never to be opened save in extrem- 
ity when reserve rations have run out 
and supply trains cannot connect with 
the troops. However, this is the very 
time when men are likely to be exhausted 
and famished. It is the very time when 
their systems demand food that tastes 
good and that assimilates easily. 

In this connection it is well to con- 
sider the peculiar merits of sugar as a 
component of the emergency ration. All 
old-timers know from experience that 
one has an unusual craving for sweets 
when working hard afield. Hunters and 
lumber jacks and soldiers suffered from 
that craving long ages .before scientists 
discovered the cause of it, which is that 

during hard muscular exertion the con- 
sumption of sugar in the body increases 

It may sound odd, but it is true, that 
when hunters or explorers are reduced 
to a diet of meat "straight" the most 
grateful addition that they could have 
would be something sweet. Men can 
get along very well on venison, without 
bread, if they have maple sugar or 
candy and some citrh acid (crystallized 
lemon juice) to go with it. And there 
is good reason for this. Sugars have 
about the same food uses as starches, be- 
cause all starch must be converted into 
sugar or dextrin before it can be assim- 
ilated. Mark, then, that sugar needs 
no conversion ; therefore it acts quickly 
as a pick-me-up to relieve fatigue, while 
bread or any other starchy food would 
have to go first through the process of 
changing into sugar before it could sup- 
ply force and heat to the body. 

A great advantage of sweets is that 
every normal person likes them. An- 
other is that they are antiseptic and pre- 
servative, which adapts them perfectly 
to use in rations that may have to be 
stored or carried a long time before us- 

These are not merely my own indi- 
vidual opinions, although all my experi- 
ence backs them. Since the worth of 
sweets in a sportsman's or soldier's food 
supply is commonly underrated, or even 
ridiculed, through sheer crass ignorance, 
let me quote from Thompson, one of the 
most eminent of our dieticians: 

"The value of sweets in the adult 
dietary has of late years found recogni- 
tion in armies. The British War Office 
shipped 1,500,000 pounds of jam to 
South Africa as a four months' supply 
tor 116,000 troops, and one New York 
firm, during the Spanish-American War, 
shipped over fifty tons of confectionery 
to the troops in Cuba, Porto Rico, and 
the Philippines. The confectionery con- 
sisted of chocolate creams, cocoanut 
macaroons, lemon and other acid fruit 
drops. . . . 

"An old-time custom among soldiers 
in the field is to fill a canteen with two 
parts vinegar and one part molasses as an 
emergency sustaining drink. . . . 

"Sugar furnishes, in addition to heat, 



considerable muscle energy, and it has 
been lately proved by Mosso, Vaughn 
Harley, and others, to have distinct 
power in relieving muscular fatigue. 

"Vaughn Harley found that with an 
exclusive diet of seventeen and one-half 
ounces of sugar dissolved in water he 
could perform almost as much muscular 
work as upon a full mixed diet. The 
effect in lessening muscle fatigue was 
noticeable in half an hour and reached a 
maximum in two hours. Three or four 
ounces of sugar taken before the ex- 
pected onset of fatigue postponed or en- 
tirely inhibited the sensation. 

"The hard-working lumbermen of 
Canada and Maine eat a very large 
quantity of sugar in the form of molas- 
ses. I have seen them add it to tea and 
to almost everything they cook. Sugar 
has also been found of much service upon 
polar expeditions." 

Many of our sportsmen, when going 
light, substitute saccharine (saxin, crys- 
tallose) for sugar, thinking thereby to 
save weight and bulk. This is a grave 
error. It is true that saccharine has 
enormous sweetening power, and that 
moderate use of it on an outing trip will 
probably do no harm. But the point 
overlooked is that sugar is a concen- 
trated source of energy, easily and quick- 
ly assimilated, whereas saccharine pro- 
duces no energy at all, being nothing 
but a coal-tar drug. 

One fault of the concentrated rations 
hitherto tried was that they contained 
no acids. Owing partly to this omission, 
such rations generally were constipating 
and had a tendency to cause scurvy. It 
would be easy to supply the deficiency, 
in very concentrated form, by adding 
tablets of citric acid. One or two tab- 
lets of this acid added to a cup of sweet- 
ened water make a refreshing lemonade. 

As a meat component for the emer- 
gency ration, I know of nothing better 
than pemmican — not the sweetened kind 
used by arctic explorers, but unsweet- 
ened, since the sugar item should be 
separate in the ration. Desiccated meat 
is disagreeable, and not nearly so nutri- 
tious as pemmican, which is already con- 
centrated as much as meat should be. 
Pemmican also has the advantage of con- 
taining a proper amount of fat. 

The man difficulty in compounding 
a good iron ration is in getting a con- 
centrated substitute for bread. The 
Germans have been experimenting with 
flour or grits made from peanuts. It is 
claimed that a pound of peanut flour 
contains as much nutritive material as 
three pounds of beef or two of peas. It 
can be made into porridge or into bis- 
cuits. Its flavor is pleasant in either a 
cooked or a raw state. Peanuts are 
rather indigestible when roasted whole, 
and whether the flour is easy to assim- 
ilate remains to be shown. 

Of course, a generous component of 
sugar and chocolate would largely offset 
a deficiency in bread, so far aj energy is 
concerned. Still there should be some- 
thing in the cereal or peanut line, for 
two reasons. First, because a food that 
digests quickly will soon leave a feeling 
of emptiness in the stomach. It does not 
"stick to the ribs" like one that takes 
several hours to digest. Second, the 
stomach craves bulk as well as nutri- 
ment — there should be something to 
swell up and distend it. This is im- 
portant, for, if concentration be carried 
too far, it defeats its own purpose. If 
we could condense a thousand caloric 
portions of food into a single tablet, a 
man would not feel that he had eaten 
anything after taking it. 

As for combinations, I think it is a 
mistake to mix meat powder with leg- 
umes or cereals and seal the mass up in 
an airtight cover. In such case, each 
food taints the other. The combination 
has a stale, nondescript taste, whereas 
each component would preserve its natu- 
ral flavor if packed separately. It 
seems more practical, in the light of 
present knowledge, to put up the emer- 
gency ration in two or three separate 
small packets, each containing only such 
components as will not taint nor steal 
flavor from the others. 

Waterproof paper is better than tin 
as a covering. The mere weight of the 
tin was a serious objection to our late 
U. S. A. emergency ration; and the can 
was hard to open, besides. The paper 
covering of erbswurst, by comparison, is 
much cheaper, easier to apply, weighs 
practically nothing, impermeable, and 
can be torn off with the fingers. 



The Results of Some Experiments in Trying New Arrangements 

with Old Calibers 

'HEN the adaptation 
of smokeless powder 
and metal-cased bul- 
lets to rifles was fol- 
lowed by the adop- 
tion of this almost 
revolutionary development in ballistics, 
and we stood amazed at the flatness of 
trajectory, penetration, and power in 
proportion to weight of weapon and re- 
coil developed, we naturally wondered 
what was to come next, and where we 
would stop. Those weapons, with their 
2,000 f.s. velocity and consequent bal- 
listic advantages, seemed not only mar- 
velous but adequate for any purpose. 
But the far-seeing rifleman appreciated 
that the epoch thus opened was but at 
its beginning, that the powders were 
crude and unreliable, and that if this 
line of investigation and development 
did not show far greater results in the 
future, it would be a unique experience. 
Therefore, as soon as he had familiar- 
ized himself with his splendid weapon, 
he was at once moved by the desire to 
learn the limitations of the new force 
thus placed at his disposal. 

The only sure method of ascertaining 
the exact size of a field is to try the sur- 
rounding fence, at every point, and to 
the best of our ability; otherwise we 
may some day be surprised to find an 
extra hard push in some direction has 
suddenly vastly widened our range and 
opened to us new fields, at times bear- 
ing "long grass" and other pleasant re- 
wards. Hence this metaphorical fence 
has been long and earnestly tested during 
the past twenty years — and much that 
was good lay beyond. The problem 
was, and is, how much? Some points 

have been the object of constant assault 
and have withstood it well; others have 
given way more or less; with the result- 
ant more or less widening of our oppor- 

In view of the fact that many will 
never be satisfied, whatever stage of effi- 
ciency in our weapons may be achieved 
it seems well that our failures in some 
directions be chronicled, as well as our 
successes — since we often learn as much 
from failure as from success. One book 
for which the writer has long yearned is 
that which shall set forth the failures of 
the experimenting rifleman, and it is his 
purpose to here record some of these fail- 
ures, as well as those efforts which re- 
sulted more satisfactorily. 

It being the privilege of each to de- 
scribe the results of his own efforts, this 
article will be confined to those car- 
tridges designed by the writer during the 
past ten years, while he was earnestly 
testing the aforesaid fence. 

It all began with a woodchuck — one 
of the common or garden variety of 
woodchuck — which so tantalizes the 
farmer's boy with its accurate judgment 
of distance as related to the carrying 
power of the aforesaid boy's rifle. The 
.30-30 and Krag cartridges were some- 
what of a surprise party for the 'chuck, 
but their power rendered them a source 
of some actual, but vastly more fancied, 
danger to the community. What we 
wanted was a rifle which would drive a 
light bullet at the velocity of the Krag. 
We had to make .22 caliber metal-cased 
bullets on the kitchen table, but we did 
it and the close of 1905 saw us getting 
2,150 f.s. velocity with a 66-grain bul- 




Then Uncle Sam speeded his gun up 
to 2,700 f.s., and the little .22 followed 
suit. As the .22 Savage High Power, 
alias "The Imp," it now needs no intro- 
duction to the American rifleman. The 
accompanying table shows its ballistics, 
and its eight-inch trajectory curve at 300 
yards, and muzzle energy equal to the 
old .40-82, have well earned for it the 
appellation of "the biggest little gun in 
the world." 

While this rifle was going through the 
natal delays in the factory we were still 
rubbing against the fence. The result 
was the production of a cartridge made 
by necking the Krag shell down to .22 
caliber and loading it with the Savage 
bullet, and it appears in the table as the 
".22 Special." This was tested for ac- 
curacy from muzzle rest, with telescope 
sight, by a gentleman in Colorado. The 
result was eight groups of five shots 
each, the largest Ay 2 inches in diameter, 
the smallest 3^ inches, and the average 
3)4 inches. These are group diameters, 
not "mean deviations." This was the 
fastest load produced, beating out the .25 
caliber with 100-grain bullet by 5 f.s. 
This load, when used on woodchuck, 
showed the remarkable fact that the 
higher the velocity given a bullet (mush- 
room, of course) the less flesh it would 
penetrate, other things being equal. 

Naturally, different loadings were 
tried, giving various velocities. Up to 
about 3,000 f.s. velocity this bullet would 
shoot through a woodchuck crosswise; 
at this velocity and above it would not, 
but invariably stopped in the 'chuck if 
hit anywhere near center. But "it didn't 
do a thing to" that woodchuck. When 
he had stopped the 1,600 foot-pounds of 
energy of that bullet and entirely ab- 
sorbed it he suddenly lost all desire for 
that last mad kick into the hole. The 
bullet could never be found, it having 
entirely disintegrated. 

The next caliber which was thorough- 
ly overhauled was the .25, it being the 
next larger in popular use. This was 
represented by .25-35 at a muzzle veloc- 
ity of less than 2,000 f.s. for its 117-grain 
bullet. Loading it with 25 grains Light- 
ning and the 86-grain bullet speeded it 
up to 2,550 f.s., but this would hardly 
do. The Krag shell was necked down 

and gave 2,965 f.s. with the 117-grain 
bullet, but when we necked the Spring- 
field shell down to .25 caliber and loaded 
it with the 117-grain sharp-point Reed 
bullet, the chronograph showed a muz- 
zle velocity of 3,103 f.s. Let us examine 
the ballistic figures of this cartridge, 
shown in the accompanying table. 

A fair subject for comparison is our 
popular model 1906 Springfield car- 
tridge. Compared with this the .25 
Special has over 400 f.s. more velocity 
at the muzzle, which alone counts for 
little. But it has a longer bullet, of 
greater sectional density, hence better re- 
tains its initial velocity. In power, that 
is actual striking energy, it has 49 foot 
pounds more than the Springfield at the 
muzzle, 142 pounds more at 100 yards, 
198 pounds more at 200 yards, 234 
pounds more at 300 yards, and 250 
pounds more at 500 yards. As to trajec- 
tory, its maximum height, when shoot- 
ing 1,000 yards, is but 8.53 feet as 
against 14.5 feet for the Springfield. As 
to velocity it has 1,016 f.s. at 1,500 
3-ards to the Springfield but 1,068 at 
1,000 yards. In other words, it has but 
52 f.s. less velocity at 500 yards greater 
range. Therefore it is substantially as 
good a target cartridge at 1,500 yards 
as the Springfield is at 1,000. 

Rifles for the New Cartridge 

No factory has as yet undertaken the 
manufacture of rifles for this cartridge 
regularly, or to manufacture the cartridge 
itself, but the writer has made up a num- 
ber of these rifles for Western men, who 
require a flat trajectory at long ranges, 
for wolf, etc., using Springfield, Mauser, 
and model 1895 Winchester actions 
adapted to the Springfield cartridge. 
Mr. Adolph, also, has made hand-made 
rifles and three-barrel guns for it, using 
the .405 Winchester shell necked down 
in double and three-barrel guns, where 
the rimless shell is impracticable on ac- 
count of the extractor used, and the 
Springfield shell in the Mausers. Proph- 
ecy is always dangerous, but we venture 
the prediction that the ballistics of this 
cartridge, together with its light recoil, 
which is far less than that of the Spring- 
field, in fact nearer that of the .30-30, 



will ultimately lead to such a call for it 
that we shall soon see it, or its practical 
equivalent, regularly manufactured by 
our factories. 

A modification of this load was made 
by using a 100-grain bullet, giving a 
muzzle velocity of 3,271 f.s., but as the 
117-grain bullet is so much superior for 
practical use, ballistic tables for the 100- 
grain weight are not given. It works 
splendidly on woodchuck, but is too light 
for an all round big game cartridge. 

Before dismissing the .25 caliber we 
must record our failure. We felt, as has 
many another, that "if a little does good 
more will do better" and we applied it 
to chamber room. We necked down the 
.40-90 Sharp's straight shell to .25 cali- 
ber, and loaded with powder up to 71 
grains, but the best velocity we could get 
was but 2,850 f.s., with the 117-grain 
bullet. We concluded that there was a 
limit to the benefits obtainable from in- 
creasing chamber room. 

The next caliber worked out was the 
.280, or 7 mm., which is its practical 
equivalent. Using a 7 mm. barrel and 
the 139-grain U. M. C. spitzer bullet, 
with a necked-down Springfield shell, 
we obtained a muzzle velocity of 3,034 
f.s., but 16 f.s. less than the Ross .280, 
or about one-half the variation in indi- 
vidual cartridges. The 7 mm. is .005 
inch smaller in diameter, across the 
grooves, than the .280, and this differ- 
ence just compensates for the six grains 
difference in bullet weight, giving the 
same ballistic coefficient and consequent 
carrying power. Therefore the ballistic 
table for the Ross .280, already pub- 
lished, approximates very closely that of 
this cartridge, hence its ballistics are not 
given. Owing to its slightly lighter bul- 
let, its striking energy is four per cent, 
less than that of the Ross. Its remain- 
ing velocity and trajectory are practically 
identical. The shells are, to the writer's 
mind, superior in form, more compact, 
smaller, and, owing to the smaller interi- 
or cross section, impose less strain on 
the rifle action. Likewise they can be 
used in any action which will handle the 
Springfield shell. 

The Ross copper tube bullet is a splen- 
did one, and owing to the fact that there 
are no soft-point spitzers made in this 

country for the 7 mm., this cartridge was 
loaded with the Ross bullet, 145 grains 
weight, and shot from a 24-inch .280- 
barrel, giving a muzzle velocity of 2,885 
f.s., or 165 f.s. less than the Ross. In 
considering these figures, however, it 
must be borne in mind that the 3,050 f.s. 
velocity of the Ross cartridge is obtained 
with a standard testing barrel of thirty 
inches in length. As indicating the dif- 
ference in velocity due to the shorter 
barrel, experiments conducted by the 
London Field and reported in the issue 
of December 20, 1913, show that with 
the .22 high-power cartridge used in the 
regular twenty-inch barrel, a velocity of 
2,734 f.s. was obtained, while when the 
same cartridge was used in the thirty- 
inch barrel it resulted in about 3,000 f.s. 
velocity, an increase of over 250 f.s. 

Inasmuch as the powder used in the 
.280 cartridges is slower burning than 
that used in the .22 high power, the va- 
riation in length of barrel would give 
even more variation in results. There- 
fore we can readily see that this car- 
tridge would equal the Ross in velocity 
if shot from the same length barrel. 
This cartridge works well through the 
action and magazine of the Springfield 
rifle in which it was used, without al- 
teration of the rifle except as to the 

The .280 caliber was also to record a 
failure. The 145-grain Ross .280 cop- 
per tube bullet was tried in a decidedly 
larger shell, the same as the "Adolph 
Express," later described. This w T as ap- 
parently another case of too large a 
chamber space, as the best velocity ob- 
tainable was under 2,900 f.s. 

The .30 Caliber 

The next caliber to be investigated, in 
point of size rather than of time, was 
the "old reliable" .30. For this a great 
variety of bullets were obtainable, as well 
as Springfield rifles and barrels. The 
result of this was "twins," or rather two 
cartridges, having the same chamber 
space, but differing in form. The first 
was made by necking down the .40-90 
Sharp'i straight shell to .30 caliber, and 
the second, made at Mr. Adolph's sug- 
gestion, by necking down a foreign car- 



tridge, much thicker in the body, hence 
shorter, for use in repeaters. Both 
have the same powder space, both use 
the same bullets, and both give the same 

Mr. Adolph christened the first, made 
from the .40-90 shell, the "Newton Ex- 
press," and the latter, made from the 
foreign shell, the "Adolph Express." 
He uses the Newton Express, which is a 
long, slender cartridge with a flanged 
head, in his double rifles and three-barrel 
guns, and the latter in his Mauser and 
Springfield repeaters, the cartridge being 
of the same length over all and hav- 
ing the same sized head as the Spring- 
field cartridge. The column designated 
"Adolph Express" gives the ballistics of 
both cartridges. 

From the table it will be seen that this 
cartridge, with the 150-grain service bul- 
let, has everything except the .22 Special 
high power beaten in both velocity and 
trajectory, and the .405 Winchester de- 
cidedly beaten in power at the muzzle. 
At the longer ranges its superiority over 
the .405 becomes more and more marked, 
being over fifty per cent more powerful 
at 300 yards. It has more power than 
the Ross .280 up to 500 yards, likewise 
a flatter trajectory. 

However, the premier sporting bullet 
in this cartridge is the 172-grain. This 
has practically the same energy at the 
muzzle as the 150-grain, and holds it 
much better. It has 900 foot-pounds 
more energy at 200 yards than has the 
.405, and over twice as much at 500 
yards. It has fifteen per cent more 
power than the Ross .280 at the muzzle, 
and this proportion increases as the range 
is lengthened. Its trajectory is practi- 
cally identical with that of the Ross at 
500 yards, and the greatest excess of 
height within that distance is but .06 
inch, or one-fifth of the diameter of the 
bullet. Its velocity is but 50 f.s. less 
than that of the Ross at the muzzle, and 
lacks but 2 f.s. of equaling it at 300 
yards; beyond this point it is the faster. 

Lieutenant Whelen says of it that: 
"The recoil is so light that good long 
range practice can be done with it, even 
by a light man." And this with a muz- 
zle energy of 3,440 foot-pounds, or five 
per cent more than the .405, and twice 

as much energy as the latter at 300 

The Adolph Express, with the 220- 
grain bullet, is primarily a cartridge for 
extreme long range. At 1,500 yards it 
has as much velocity and fifty per cent 
more energy than the Springfield, model 
1906, has at 1,000 yards. This gives 
something to "buck the wind." 

The 190-grain "Adolph Express" is 
a compromise between the 172-grain and 
225-grain weights, superb for long range, 
but inferior to the 225-grain; a good 
sporting bullet, but inferior to the 172- 
grain. However, the bullets are easily 
procured in this country, which counts 
for something, the 225-grain bullet hav- 
ing to be imported. This shell will also 
take any of the other weights of .30-cal- 
iber bullets with correspondingly good 

The above covers the more important 
types of special cartridges designed by 
the writer. The purpose of these car- 
tridges is to furnish something better 
than any factory product for some par- 
ticular purpose; in other words, special- 
izing as far as possible in each direction. 
Some are adapted to extreme long-range 
target work, others to game shooting at 
short range and others to game shooting 
at long range, and within the limits of 
power developed, which in the case of 
the Adolph Express reaches well above 
that of the most powerful American- 
made rifle, the .405 Winchester, the rifle- 
man who is desirous of owning the very 
best weapon for any particular purpose 
can find his wish gratified, provided he 
does not object to using hand-loaded car- 
tridges. One notable result obtained in 
the working out of this series of car- 
tridges was a pronounced reduction of re- 
coil in proportion to energy developed. 

Americans cannot be said to be always 
discontented. Many are the rifles which 
have been pronounced to be "Big enough 
for the biggest game." This has been 
applied to the muzzle loader, the .44 
W.C.F., the .45-70, and to the later 
high-power cartridges as they came out, 
in succession, up to the most powerful 
of them all, the .405 Winchester. This 
statement, however, represents but the 
individual opinion of the weapon as 
meeting the individual wants of the user 



and the field of the rifle abroad is vaster, 
both in its actual requirements and in 
the power deemed desirable to meet 
given requirements. Therefore, while 
the American, prior to the smokeless 
powder era, termed the old Sharp's 
buffalo guns ''coast defense," the foreign 
sportsman was using rifles of 10, 12, and 
8 bore commonly, and occasionally 4 
bores. Since the smokeless powder era 
our foreign friends have substituted .450, 
.500, .577, and .600 caliber cordite rifles, 
giving muzzle energies up to 7,000 
pounds and butt plate energies which 
certainly secure for them respect, as 
witness the reports of the users of the 

.450 cordite, the smallest of those men- 
tioned, when used in a rifle of 12 pounds 

While we have in this country no use 
for rifles of the terrific power of those 
mentioned, the problem suggests itself 
that, inasmuch as the reduction of cal- 
iber and increase of speed to obtain a 
given power result in a vast reduction in 
recoil, the same principle might be ap- 
plied to these gigantic "elephant guns" 
with good results. It was, and a subse- 
quent chapter will show results obtained. 

The following table shows the ballis- 
tics of the cartridges discussed in this 
article : 

Range. Bullet. 

Muzzle Velocity, ft. sec 2800 3276 

Energy, ft. lbs 1190 1625 

100 Yd. Velocity, ft. sec 2453 2891 

Energy, ft. lbs ,911 1268 

Trajectory, ft 052 .038 

Time, Fit., sec 114 .098 

200 Yd. Velocity, ft. sec 2131 2537 

Energy, ft. lbs 687 959 

Trajectory, ft 242 .174 

Time, Fit., sec 246 .209 

300 Yd. Velocity, ft. sec 1833 2208 

Energy, ft. lbs 510 740 

Trajectory, ft 666 .451 

Time, Fit., sec 408 .336 

500 Yd. Velocity, ft. sec 1341 1631 

Energy, ft. lbs 272 401 

Trajectory, ft 246 1.70 

Time, Fit., sec 784 .653 

1000 Yd. Velocity, ft. sec 869 943 

Energy, ft. lbs 114 136 

Trajectory, ft 20.1 14.90 

Time, Fit., sec 2.24 1.93 

1500 Yd. Velocity, ft. sec 641 694 

Energy, ft. lbs 62 73 

Trajectory, ft 71.8 46.37 

Time, Fit., sec 4.26 3.82 

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TARPON AND THE MOVIES is what Mr. A. W. Dimock 
calls the story of his experiences in landing a leaping tarpon on a 
moving picture film. It will appear in the May OUTING. 



The Duty of the Good Fisherman Is Not Ended When He Has the 

Fish In His Basket 

P on the Neversink there 
used to live a long-legged 
bear hunter. That man 
could walk almost as fast as 
an ordinary mortal can run. 
It is a great thing to have 
long legs for stumping around through 
the mountains, and the Catskill hunter 
could cover twenty miles of bear country 
and be ready for twenty miles more. 

It is to be regretted that my Never- 
sink friend did not have a heart as big as 
his legs were long. In his bear-hunting 
he used steel-traps. Those torturing con- 
trivances should be made unlawful, but 
the hunter of long legs looked upon all 
bears as his enemies to be slaughtered by 
any method whatever. He set steel' 
traps every fall, and in November there 
were always bear hides drying against 
the sides of his woodshed, and the neigh- 
bors for ten miles around had bear meat. 
One October I was up in that country 
with my wife. The weather had turned 
to what was really uncomfortably hot, 
and during the heated spell a young bear 
took a chance with one of the long-legged 
hunter's steel-traps. The hunter was a 
generous old fellow, and knowing that 
my wife had never eaten bear meat, he 
brought over to our boarding-house a 
nice chunk of the poor young bruin. But 
I had my doubts as to the manner of the 
death of the bear. 

"Did you shoot him?" I asked. 
"Wall, yer see, it were onnecessary," 
replied the hunter. "Bern' as how we've 
had such a peculiar spell of hot weather, 
that thar b'ar fit hisself to death." 
"How was that?" 

"Jes' fit hisself to death," replied the 
hunter. "Th' clog on th' trap got 
cotched between two little birches, and it 
were entirely onnecessary ter use a rifle." 


"You found him dead?" I pursued. 

"Dead ez a porcupig under a dead' 
fall," the hunter replied. 

It is "onnecessary" to say that we 
thanked the hunter, took the meat, but 
did not eat any of the bear that was 
caught in the cruel jaws of a steel-trap 
and had "fit hisself to death." The meat 
may have been all right for human nutri- 
ment, but most of us would hardly care 
to make a venture. 

Many fishermen are as careless as was 
the Catskill hunter as to the manner of 
the death of their quarry. I have actual- 
ly known a trout angler to say that he 
likes to hear his trout flopping and 
thumping to their end in his creel. As 
he puts it, "I know when my creel shakes 
and I hear 'em floundering that for sure 
I've caught something." And a bass 
fisherman whom I know throws his catch 
into the bottom of his boat, where they 
flop under a midsummer sun on the 
boards until they struggle and gasp to a 
wretched end. 

Maybe a deer that has come to its 
death by drowning would be as good to 
eat as one that had died quickly and 
painlessly with a bullet through the heart 
or head. For one I doubt it. And I 
think that most sportsmen would prefer 
to eat steaks cut from the latter. And 
the gasping to the death in air of a trout 
or bass is strictly analogous to the drown- 
ing of a deer in water. Yet I suppose 
very few would pause before eating to 
consider how a fish met its death. 

I do not know that with the smaller 
fish it has ever been proved that the fla- 
vor is really impaired by a lingering ter- 
mination of its life. But salmon fisher- 
men will tell you that among guides 
there is a riverside prejudice against the 
flesh of a salmon that has not been killed 



and bled immediately after the use of the 
net or gaff. 

But leaving aside for the moment all 
questions as to the flavor or healthfulness 
of salmon, trout, or other fish that have 
been quickly despatched after the lift- 
ing from the water, there is much, very 
much, to be said as to the cruelty of the 
practice of leaving the finned game to a 
lingering, gasping torment, until death 
mercifully brings the end. Because the 
object of our sport of angling is really 
the death of the fish that is pursued, there 
is no reason why that death should not 
be given to the game in an expeditious 
and merciful manner. 

If this is scientifically done, then we 
have the Hest reason for believing that 
there has been no real cruelty connected 
with our sport. For under natural con* 
ditions almost every fish of river, stream, 
or lake must die a more or less cruel 
death. Among the dwellers of the water 
such a thing as an end caused by old age 
would be almost an impossibility. 

The Humane Way to Kill 

Let us examine the methods for the 
humane killing of fish. And, although 
this may not be a particularly pleasant 
subject, yet as the sport of angling, as has 
been said, is the endeavor to kill fish, 
then the actual killing should be a part 
of the streamside or lakeside technique 
of every fishing sportsman. And he 
should know how to practice this part of 
his art, just as he should know how to 
practice other parts of his art, and should 
know a means for killing his fish in a 
manner that will be the quickest and that 
will inflict the least possible pain. 

After netting their trout some fisher- 
men place their thumbs in the mouth of 
their fish and bend the head far back- 
ward, thus breaking the backbone at the 
base of the skull. There can be no ques- 
tion but that this mode instantaneously 
ends the life of a fish. But for some of 
us the process is peculiarly disagreeable. 
Then, too, a large trout has sharp teeth ; 
and the angler's thumb, if not protected 
with a glove, may suffer to an extent. 
Also, every angler prefers that if pos- 
sible the trout in his creel shall present 
an attractive appearance, and trout that 

have had their backbones broken, as has 
been described, are not very sightly; they 
almost immediately begin to discolor near 
the head, and if left long in the creel will 
soften at the place of rupture. 

Against this practice there are also 
other arguments. For rather esthetic 
reasons trout are generally cooked with 
their heads left on the bodies. When 
trout have been killed by breaking the 
backbone at the base of the head, the 
process of frying or broiling frequently 
causes the heads to drop quite away, thus 
injuring the appearance of the fish when 
served on plate or platter. 

There can be no question that break- 
ing the backbone of trout or other fish 
ends its life mercifully, but a heavy blow 
on the base of the skull is equally pain- 
less, perhaps even more so. Be an ani- 
mal small or large, finned or legged, of 
necessity such a blow must either stun or 

To practice the latter method, the 
trout fisherman can carry in his pocket a 
heavy fishing-knife. He will need a 
stout knife for many purposes. The one 
I have carried for years is, for me, an 
ideal tool. It is made of the best of 
steel, has a long handle, and weighs 
three ounces. It has three blades: a 
long, thin blade suitable for cleaning fish, 
a short, stout blade which is good for 
cutting down saplings for poles to dis- 
engage flies from the limbs of trees, and 
a smaller blade for those uses where such 
a blade is appropriate. 

With this fairly heavy knife a trout 
can be instantly killed. To effect it, the 
trout is grasped firmly in the left hand 
and with the closed knife the right hand 
strikes a sharp blow at the base of the 
head of the fish — where the skull joins 
the backbone. It is better to deliver two 
or three blows after the first to make 
certain that the trout is not only stunned 
but that it is killed. 

Within the method that has been de- 
scribed it will be found that on a hot day 
the trout in the creel will remain firm 
much longer than if their backbones had 
been actually broken. And when the 
trout are cooked the heads have no tend- 
ency to fall away, and at the table are 
entirely presentable and are not beheaded 
fish. As to the mercifulness of the 



death: from the moment the blow has 
been given, if given correctly, the fish 
has surely lost all sensation. 

If fishing from a canoe or from a boat, 
or if angling for very heavy trout — say 
upwards of two pounds — a stout, heavy 
stick, about a foot or so long and prefer- 
ably cut from a green sapling so that it 
will not break easily, is better for ending 
the fishing battle than a heavy knife. 
Some anglers carry such a weapon in 
their creels and make use of it in prefer- 
ence to a pocket-knife. My own practice 
is to use my knife for ordinary stream 
work and a stick for Canada lake ang- 
ling, or, generally, for very heavy trout, 
such as are sometimes caught in the Lake 
Superior regions, and for sea trout in 
Nova Scotia and Prince Edward Island. 

The humane killing of other fish than 
trout — bass, pickerel, and pond fish — 
can be effected with a stout piece of sap- 
ling such as has been described, or, if 
preferred, with the large blade of a fish- 
ing-knife. The latter method for pond 
fish is sometimes more convenient. As 
pond fish are not generally cooked with 
their heads, and as the coarser and larger 
fish are the better when they come to the 
table after they have been bled at the 
time of death, the backbone of such fish 
can be severed with a knife just at the 
base of the brain. If this is carefully 
and quickly done death is quite as instan- 
taneous as death caused by a blow of 
knife or stick. 

Killing the Big Fish 

To kill such monsters as muskellunge 
and salmon, it is usual to use a heavy 
cudgel in the same manner as has been 
described for smaller fish with a stick or 
knife. Scottish anglers frequently ad- 
minister the blow or blows with a stone 
held in the hand. Afterwards it would 
seem to be the usual practice in Scotland 
to "crimp" the salmon immediately after 
killing. Stoddart says, in his "Compan- 
ion," "Crimp the fish immediately on its 
being killed, by the waterside, making 
the cuts slantwise and at a distance of 
two inches from each other; separate also 
the gills, and, holding it by the tail, im- 
merse the body in the stream for the 
space of three or four minutes, moving it 

backwards and forwards, so as to expe- 
dite the flowing off of the blood." Else- 
where, Stoddart refers to "crimping" 
(cutting) such large fish as pike in the 
same manner that he describes for 

But "crimping" salmon at the river- 
side and at the time of killing injures 
their appearance. Therefore, on many 
American salmon rivers the guides bleed 
the fish in some other manner. The 
guides in some parts of Newfoundland 
are so careless in respect to the appear- 
ance of the fish that they sometimes sep- 
arate a salmon into two pieces, making 
the separation at about the middle of 
the fish. Doubtless this is done not only 
to bleed the salmon, but to make it easy 
for transportation to camp or boarding- 
house. At any rate, there seems to be 
a consensus of opinion among salmon fish- 
ermen that bleeding the fish at the time 
of landing it with gaff or net, and im- 
mediately after killing, very much adds 
to its keeping qualities and increases the 
flavor when brought on the table. 

It might be thought strange that small- 
er fish of the salmon tribe, the various 
species of trout, are not frequently bled 
immediately after they have been caught 
and killed. If any one cares to make the 
experiment, I think that he will discover 
that even a small brook trout is the bet- 
ter for having been bled at the streamside. 
Some of us know what a wonderful fish 
a trout can be if cooked a few moments 
after being caught, and it is not unlikely 
that the high flavor is due to the almost 
immediate letting away of the blood be- 
fore it has a chance to coagulate in the 
veins. For those who have not tasted 
trout that are put into the pan fifteen 
minutes to a half-hour after they have 
taken the fly, they have an Epicurean ex- 
perience still coming their way and one 
well worth the trial. 

The actual killing of the glittering 
trophy is not pleasant to "rub in," but 
we who make it our sport to pursue to 
the finish the brave little warriors of the 
water should attempt the task of seeing 
that the end comes with the very mini- 
mum of pain. Among anglers perhaps 
there is a little thoughtlessness in this 
regard. It is no wonder. The young 
fisherman is instructed how to cast his 



bait or flies; he is told how to handle the 
tethered quarry after it has taken the 
hook; and he has much said to him as to 
how to land or boat the finned knight 
when the battle in the water is well- 
nigh over. 

Frequently there is nothing said to 
the novice about what it would seem 
must be a somewhat important subject 
to the vanquished of the spots or the 
scales. It might be almost thought that 
when the net envelops the fish, the per- 
formance were over for him, and that 
dragging to the grass or sands ended all. 

But the most important event is yet to 
come, and the event which the brave 
battler of the gills has done his sporty 
uttermost to avert. 

It is hoped that this brief paper may 
call attention to the thoughtless and need- 
less cruelty of leaving fish in boat or creel 
to linger and gasp away to a slow and 
suffocating end. To make amends to the 
Creator, who has placed at our disposal 
the beautiful tribes of river and lake, 
surely the least that we of the wand can 
do is to make their fishy exits as quick and 
painless as possible. 



How to Get the Court in Shape in the Spring and Keep It So All 


T first thought the mat- 
ter of maintaining grav- 
el tennis courts seems a 
trifling one, but in nine 
out of ten cases, serious 
mistakes are made by 
the caretaker and much inconvenience 
results before the details of watering, 
raking, brooming, and rolling are thor- 
oughly mastered. After a week of train- 
ing an average laborer will be found 
quite capable of taking care of gravel 
courts in a satisfactory manner. But it 
is a mistake to suppose that even fair re- 
sults may be had from a man who has 
not been carefully taught the particular 
methods involved in the work. 

The first problem that presents itself 
in the spring is that of getting the courts 
in condition for the use of the players 
who want to round into form early in 
the season. At this time the ground will 
be more or less soft and moist and will 
continue so for some weeks, so that it is 
out of the question to expect to develop 
a very fast playing surface before the 
first or the middle of June. Unless 
the court is the exception it will be 
found to be covered by a layer of fine 
pebbles that have worked to the surface 
during the winter. These must be 

swept off before rolling is attempted. 

When the stones have been removed 
the court should be tested for high and 
low places, the best method being to 
flood the area and carefully note the 
spots that are in need of attention. A 
smooth surface may often be secured 
merely by using the rake and broom and 
sweeping a small amount of gravel from 
the raised places to those that are de- 
pressed. In case the depressions are so 
decided that this is impossible gravel 
may be applied, a little at a time, until 
the surface is brought to a perfect grade. 

About the middle of May it is highly 
desirable to make use of a one to three- 
ton steam roller or a horse roller. A 
three-ton tandem steam roller in the 
hands of a competent engineer can ac- 
complish wonders on a tennis court in 
the course of two hours. When the 
steam roller is at work a laborer should 
be on hand to smooth out all inequalities 
with the rake and broom and to water 
lightly with the hose. Under no cir- 
cumstances should the roller be allowed 
on the surface of the court until it has 
dried out to the extent that it will not 
"pick up" when the roller passes over it. 

For a high-grade gravel court the use 
of a lead tape is almost indispensable. 



The nails used should not be less than 
three inches long nor more than four 
inches apart if a line that is absolutely 
true is desired. After the tape is laid 
it is usually painted with a white lead 
paint. A coat of paint is not absolutely 
necessary at the outset, however, because 
a new tape is very shiny and readily seen 
by the players. 

Much time will be found to have been 
saved if the work of watering and roll- 
ing is carried on about as follows. The 
space is first wet down lightly with a 
stream from a three-quarter inch hose, 
using the medium spray on a single court 
for about fifteen minutes. The surface 
is then allowed to dry until it is almost 
dusty after which it is worked over with 
a broom and every inequality brushed 
out. Lastly it is rolled with a hand 
roller of moderate weight. If the 
brooming has been well attended to one 
rolling will produce just about as satis- 
factory a surface as two or three. The 
tapes are then swept off and the height 
of the net verified. For this last pur- 
pose it is very convenient to keep a meas- 
uring rod on hand with a nail in it to 
indicate the proper height for the top of 
the net. 

One of the most common of the com- 
plaints from the players is that with 
reference to the dust. The dust nui- 
sance may be overcome by the use of a 

great deal of water; not, however, with- 
out the water having a tendency to 
render the court a trifle "slow." A 
treatment for dusty courts that has been 
found cheap and effective consists in ap- 
plication of calcium chloride. This salt, 
which costs less than a cent a pound 
when purchased in quantities, requires to 
be applied with considerable care; other- 
wise a dark brown, overmoist, and dirty 
surface will result. 

If several hundred pounds are shov- 
eled on at a single application, as has 
often been recommended, the gravel will 
become wet and sticky and the court will 
be out of service for five days or a week, 
a very undesirable situation at the height 
of the playing season. Four hundred 
pounds of calcium chloride will keep a 
court free from dust for a season and, if 
applied as follows, not a day need be lost 
from play and the players may be spared 
the inconvenience of dirty balls, rackets, 
and shoes. A solution of five pounds of 
the salt and ten gallons of water is 
sprinkled over each court with the aid 
of a watering pot daily. This applica- 
tion is so small as to show no tendency 
to "slow up" the court and small tend- 
ency to soil balls or rackets. In addition 
to the applications of the solution, a 
watering with the hose should be given 
daily, five to ten minutes being sufficient 
for this purpose. 






Illustrated with Photographs 

It Is the Trudgeon Crawl That Has Put Hebner, Frizelle and 
McGillivray at the Head of the List 

OME eight or nine years ago, 
when the crawl swimming 
stroke was beginning to win 
recognition in this country and 
our watermen were devoting 
close study to it, Frank Sulli- 
van, one of Chicago's leading instructors, 
conceived the idea of combining with it 
some of the features of the trudgeon, in 
order to try out a theory which he had 

It may be remembered that, at the 
time, the majority firmly believed the 
action of the crawl too punishing for 
distances beyond one hundred yards and 
thought it useless except in sprinting. 
Sullivan, however, felt confident that 
by making the slight change which he 
had in mind the stroke would become 
available for all purposes. It was his 
plan to introduce into the leg drive of 
the crawl — which is an alternate up and 
down thrash of narrow scope — the dis- 
tinctive scissors kick of the trudgeon, 
then universally favored for the longer 
courses. He proposed to time it with 
the pull of the top-arm, as in the latter 

Sullivan's contention that this com- 
bination would yield results was based 

on good logic. He reasoned that since 
the leg drive of the crawl was solely 
responsible for its sprinting superiority 
over the trudgeon and only inability 
on the part of the crawl exponents to 
hold it for the needed period to cover 
the quarter, half, and mile prevented 
its proving best in all-round work, the 
addition of the scissors kick would re- 
duce the effort and overcome the diffi- 

"Once momentum is imparted to the 
body by the trudgeon kick," he argued, 
"it should take but very little power 
to keep it under way. A mere fluttering 
of the feet will do it. Thus, with no 
appreciable expenditure of energy, the 
swimmer should maintain the acquired 
speed between kicks, avoid the check in- 
curred in the trudgeon, and advance 
smoothly and continuously." 

The theory was worth a trial, any- 
how. But when it came to finding the 
wanted material for this practical test 
Sullivan faced an unexpected barrier. 
None of the successful contestants he 
approached would consent to adopt the 
unknown stroke, even as an experiment. 
It was too risky. They might lose their 
speed instead of increasing it. 



Realizing that there was no hope of 
interesting the better swimmers, Sulli- 
van decided to take the bull by the horns 
and use green recruits. He persuaded 
four boys under sixteen who could not 
swim at all to let him teach them, and 
he put them at the new stroke, which 
he named the trudgeon-crawl. 

It was a pure gamble, with the odds 
heavy against him, for natural ability 
plays an important role in the production 
of a champion, w T hether in swimming or 
in any other branch of athletics. Still, 
it was the only road open to him under 
the circumstances, and being eager to 
ascertain the value of his views, one way 
or the other, he took it. 

A remarkable thing happened. Be- 
fore one year had elapsed all four of 
the novices had developed into most 
promising swimmers. At first they fig- 
ured only in handicap races, but con- 
spicuously, for they improved so rapidly 
that their allowances could not be cut 
fast enough to keep them from winning. 
Then they began to score in important 
scratch events and before the second sea- 
son had drawn to a close they were bid- 
ding for honors in the championship 

One of them, Leslie Chiville, made his 
mark in Marathon swimming and re- 
tired not long ago; another, Richard 
Frizelle, captured a number of district 
and national titles, then migrated re- 
cently to Central America. But the 
other two, Perry McGillivray and 


Harry Hebner, are to-day the greatest 
pair of all-round swimmers in this coun- 
try, probably in the world. 

Within the past twelve months Mc- 
Gillivray has wiped out the standards 
created by Charles M. Daniels at 110, 
440, 500, and 880 yards, while Hebner, 
besides establishing world's records for 
swimming 50, 100, and 150 yards on 
the back, recently shattered Daniels' 
world's figures for the furlong, lowering 
them from 2 minutes 25 2-5 seconds to 
2 minutes 21 seconds. 

Even when taking into consideration 
the advantage enjoyed by Hebner in ac- 
complishing the latter feat, he having 
made ten turns and Daniels only eight, 
the new mark shows fully two and two- 
fifths seconds below the old one, for it 
is estimated that one second at most can 
be gained at each turn. And let it be 
added that Daniels himself spoke of the 
quoted 220-yard performance as his best, 
while competent authorities looked upon 
it as the most difficult of all interna- 
tional records to dispose of. Hebner, 
then, may now be credited with the fast- 
est bit of swimming ever done by man. 

Coming to the point, it was the 
trudgeon-crawl which enabled McGilli- 
vray and Hebner to exhibit such sensa- 
tional speed. Both still use it. True, 
the clever coaches who have handled 
them since Sullivan left Chicago to as- 
sume the post of instructor at Princeton 
University, and particularly William 
Bachrach, the man who has gradually 


brought them to their present state of 
wonderful efficiency, changed their style 
slightly and improved their form. But 
one feature of their strokes has remained 
unaltered, the leg drive taught them dur- 
ing their novitiate, the chief character- 
istic of the trudgeon-crawl. 

To the casual observer the leg thrash 
of both McGillivray and Hebner may 
appear similar to that of scores of racing 
men who use the crawl, but the close 
student of swimming will notice at once, 
sharply emphasized, a more vigorous 
snap of the legs as the top-arm finishes 
its drive, rhythmically marking the time 
and showing that a narrow scissors kick 
is then taken, in accordance with the 
principles which govern the trudgeon. 

Weighing these facts in the balance, 
does it not seem logical to conclude that 
the trudgeon-crawl is the stroke of the 
future ? 

Of course, swimming history is being 
-written so swiftly, nowadays, that there 
is no telling how soon new discoveries 
may come to upset all calculations, yet 
the evidence in hand strongly supports 
the belief that this variety of crawl will 
at least outlive all other types of stroke 
at present in existence. 

In the writer's opinion the great swim- 
ming of George Hodgson, of Canada, 
holder of the 400 and 1 ,500 meter Olym- 
pic titles and records, is another proof 
of thr. superiority of the trudgeon-crawl, 
altho igh partisans of the trudgeon cite 
it as their principal argument in favor 
of the stroke they advocate. 

Hodgson's method of swimming, in 
fact, bears only faint and remote traces 
of the stroke to which Trudgeon gave 
his name. The action of both arms and 
legs is different. This is just another 
illustration of the frequent errors of 
nomenclature incurred through the un- 
fortunate custom of classifying strokes 
at their first appearance, then retaining 
the names in spite of alterations which 
practically make them unrecognizable. 
The system is hard to improve because 
the process of evolution is usually marked 
by so many slight changes that to tabu- 
late each would be even more confus- 
ing, but it is decidedly unsatisfactory as 
it stands. 

In this case, for instance, Hodgson is 
supposed to swim the trudgeon on the 
strength of his using a double over-arm 
action and a scissors kick, although the 
movements of the arms are no longer 
the same and the kick has been com- 
pletely remodelled. It is with this kick 
that we are chiefly concerned, however. 

The type shown by Trudgeon is now 
obsolete. It called lor drawing the legs 
up toward the chest, bent hard at the 
knees, then throwing them wide and 
bringing them together with strength. 
Where do you see at present such a 
kick? Certainly not in the competitive 

As to Hodgson, he opens the legs but 
little, almost straight at the knees, and 
does not draw up the thighs at all. A 
marked difference already. But what 
deserves special attention here is that 




sor, fs taken, and one or more minor 
ones; that Hodgson uses one pretty wide 
scissor and adds a narrow one. Is the 
claim unwarranted that the Canadian's 
stroke more nearly resembles the 
trudgeon-crawl than any other type? 

In taking up the trudgeon-crawl two 
things should determine the number and 
width of the kicks, or thrashes, to be 
made : the distance in sight and the char- 
acteristics of the individual. 

In sprinting a mere accenting of the 
scissor will prove best, for one of great- 
er scope may establish a drag. On the 
other hand, the following drives may 
be made almost as full, so as to give a 
strong, continuous impetus. As the dis- 
tance increases, however, the scissor may 
be gradually allowed more scope, while 


Reputed to be the fastest all 
round swimmer in the world. 
Holds all the international back 
stroke records and recently 
lowered the free style 220 yard 
standard considered by experts 
the best on the record lists. 

he allows his feet to cross in snapping 
the legs together, so that they must pass 
again a moment later in order to get 
into position for the next drive. And 
in passing the second time, on the return, 
the young Canadian makes the move- 
ment with some vigor; the legs don't 
float back, they are driven. Actually, 
then, another kick is performed. 

Dissecting the Crawl 

Consider, now, that any crawl thrash, 
when dissected, is found to be composed 
of a series of drives, each in itself a 
narrow scissors kick; that in the 
trudgeon-crawl one major drive, or scis- 


National all round swimming 
champion of 1913 and American 
record holder at 110, 440, 600, 
and 880 yards. 



the accompanying beats should steadily 
be made smaller and less powerful. Over 
the longer courses a rather good opening 
is advisable in the kick, but the minor 
drives should be just a fluttering mo- 
tion of the feet, as already indicated. 

This, in a general way. For the rest, 
the swimmer must decide for himself 
just how fast and how wide to make 
the thrash. Obviously, a man with un- 
usually powerful legs can adopt a type 
of action quite beyond his weaker rival. 
The question can only be solved by ex- 

The Arm Stroke 

Although the arm strokes of trudgeon 
and crawl are alike, it may be well in 
concluding to say a word about them. 
The arms drive alternately and prac- 
tically equidistantly ; that is, as the one 
is about to catch, the other should be 

National 440 Yard Swimming Champion of 1912. 


Now swimming instructor at Princeton Uni- 
versity. Inventor of the trudgeon-crawl swim- 
ming stroke. 

finishing. The hands dip in front of the 
head and close to it, then push forward 
under water, so that by the time the arms 
are comfortably outstretched and ready 
to catch the hands are a few inches be- 
low the surface and the arms at such an 
angle that the applied power at once be- 
comes effective. 

With a vigorous, even pull, the arms 
are then swept under the body and car- 
ried to within touch of the thigh, when 
the muscles are completely relaxed, the 
elbows bent and lifted, and the hands 
brought out of water without jerking. 
From here the arms are thrown forward 
above the surface, still bent at the elbow 
and raised, so that in passing beyond the 
head they may be in the right position 
to make the slanting entry mentioned 



The Sad Truth of a Hunter Who Could Have Been Happy with 
Either "W ere Either or T'other Away" 

T was early September, and after a 
long, hot summer, the cane was rus- 
tling under nearly spent but still re- 
freshing breezes from frostier lands. 
The home-bred woodducks were 
strengthening their wings daily on 
the long stretches of Little River, and a 
few Northern teal had come down to 
pay us an early and protracted visit. 
Cat squirrels chattered from every pin- 
oak tree, and the "red" deer were polish- 
ing their horns on the rough bark of the 

Having noted where many game ani- 
mals went down to the river to drink, I 
resolved that my best chance to bag 
either turkey, panther, or bear was to 
hide in the edge of the cane, with a clear 
view of the bar and river, and there wait. 
A bear is sure to go to water over some 
certain path, his habits being as regular 
as the clock. I found a comfortable 
seat with my back to a tree and meant to 
remain until something worth while ap- 
peared. In any event, I could not have 
hunted through the tangled cane with 
any expectation of success — every wild 
thing would have heard me rods away. 
Along in the afternoon I could hear 
my bear threshing around in the brush 
back of me, but he seemed to be taking 
plenty of time about coming to the river 
for a drink. Now he broke a canestalk 
with a snap as clear as the crack of a 
rifle, again it was the gentle shaking of 
a blackhaw tree, the berries of which I 
had sampled myself more than once. 
His dilatoriness did not worry me, for I 
said to myself: "You can't get me that 
way, old fellow. I have all the time 
that you have, probably more, because 
I expect to live longer." 

I rubbed my back against the tree un- 
til the moss fitted more smoothly, dug 


my feet into the sand as a brace, and 
thought well of the world. What a 
wonderful city of wood-folks this was 
around me, with its homes and houses, 
its streets and water-courses, its bosses 
and his followers, but the great body 
honest, self - respecting wood - citizens. 
How busy they all were, and how man- 
like the vanity of every one! Having 
detected a badly concealed trap, the coon 
says, "Now, if that had been any other 
coon he'd have got his foot into it sure." 
The wild drake quacks a warning when 
the eagle's shadow hovers over the 
stream, and, with his flock safe around 
the bend, chuckles to them softly and 
a wee bit boastingly, saying, "With any 
other leader you would be no better than 
dead ducks now." The red-headed bear 
over in the cane doubtless knows that a 
woods-loafer is waiting for him under 
the big tree, and he cracks his own bear 
joke as he snaps the cane. 

Having a corn or two that hurt, I 
concluded to pull off my shoes and dig 
my toes into the cool sand. It was 
queer, but the moss on that tree felt as 
soft as a cushion when I sat down there, 
and now some kind of a knot had ap- 
peared right between my shoulders. I 
pulled off my coat and placed it over 
that knot. 

Maybe I went to sleep and maybe I 
didn't, but I had sat there like the 
stumpish knee of that old tree a very 
long time; the weather wasn't too hot 
and it wasn't too cold; the wind fanned 
me and sung from the tops of the cypress 
trees; there was peace in the great 
swamp woods, and I remember a feel- 
ing of perfect indifference as to whether 
bears and panthers ever were killed or 

Of a sudden I was wide awake, con- 



scious of having received a severe peck 
on my bare foot. Then I saw an amaz- 
ing thing: lifting his head to peck again, 
close enough for me to reach out my 
hand and touch him, a great black gob- 
bler stood before me, his eyes gleaming 
into mine in a friendly way. Followed 
a confused rush and swirl of dark fig- 
ures! The gobbler's broad wing struck 
my hat off; a creature as large as a 
horse chased across my extended legs, 
and the rank smell of a bear was in my 

Too stunned to move hand or foot, I 
saw the Black Gobbler clear the under- 
brush with a roar of powerful wing- 
beats, and, after a half-comical, half- 
snarling grin at me, the Red-headed Bear 
plunged into the cane, which snapped 
and bent as he tore through ; then, vi- 
brating, demoniac, ventriloquent, there 
came a wailing, feminine cry from across 
the river — the yell of the Timber Lake 
Panther. He had been watching the 
whole tableau from across the river and 
now voiced his disgust. 

I never caught a glimpse of him, 
though, but I picked up my rifle and 
went home. Major Jones was unable 
to get any particulars out of me. 

It was cotton-picking time in the Ya- 
zoo Delta, and every man, woman, and 
child above the age of eight was busy in 
the fields. As a visitor, and the only 
man of leisure about the plantation, Ma- 
jor Jones gave me three tasks which to 
me were most congenial. He wished 
me to kill the Black Gobbler, the Red- 
headed Bear, and the Timber Lake 

The Black Gobbler was a notorious 
bird. He had escaped from some river- 
men, hunters who had come down from 
the north on a flatboat. They had used 
him as decoy, staking him out in the 
woods and shooting the wild birds which 
he called. He was an immense gobbler, 
wary and wise, and knowing beyond 
others of his kind. No man could call 
him, none had ever been able to stalk 
him; he knew every device of the turkey 
hunter, and fully understood the fatal 
nature of firearms. He was half-wild, 
half-tame. Anybody could get close to 
him provided he had no gun, but, good- 
ness! that big fellow knew guns. 

What provoked the Major, though, 
was that Black Gobbler had stolen all 
the turkey hens on the plantation that 
spring, coaxed them off to the woods 
from which they never returned. Con- 
sequently the genial planter was without 
his customary roast turkey. My strict 
instructions were to kill this gobbler, 
whereupon the hens might come back 
with their broods. 

There are plenty of black bears in the 
swamp country lying between Little 
River and the Yazoo, but usually they 
remain in the depth of the forest, rarely 
seen unless chased by dogs. This red- 
headed fellow, however, — he was called 
red-headed because his head was a red- 
dish tawny, while his body was jet black 
— had taken to ranging on the planta- 
tion. He didn't seem to have any actual 
meanness in him, had never hurt anyone, 
but was full of mischief, and from too 
much familiarity with them had lost all 
fear of the negroes. 

Twice he had chased Uncle Ben's 
black brood out of the cotton field. He 
had entered the yard where Jonas, the 
coon-hunter, was finishing up a hard day 
by chopping stove-wood one evening, and 
after the wood-chopper had thrown his 
axe at him retaliated by charging the 
man, who barely escaped with a split 
coattail as he bolted through the door. 
Bill Evans was riding home from town 
one night, when the bear suddenly 
sprang into the road in front of him, 
so frightening the old white mule that 
he pitched his rider over his head and 
ran away. Bill didn't know what hap- 
pened after that, for he struck his head 
on a stump when he fell. The Red- 
headed Bear was marked for slaughter — ■ 
fear of him was demoralizing the field 

The Timber Lake Panther had his 
den in the impenetrable canebrakes bor- 
dering the lake of that name. From 
one darkey he stole a pig, from another 
a sheep or a calf — almost nightly there 
were marks of his visit somewhere on the 
plantation. Moreover, he was consid- 
ered dangerous. He had a most trying 
habit of following the people in the dark, 
squalling as he came, and the poor blacks 
dared not pass through the woods after 
sunset. He just had to be killed, the 

OU [7NG 

Major declared, and the task was turned 
: me. I elected to camp 
ga isl the bear first, and the result has 
just c led. 

Being in the employ of the I 
rnment, 1 was call* 
shortly after that, and did not get back 
until a h s rhanksgiving. 

earned that the turk ither, and 

bear were still "footloose and free," but 
just at that particular time the Mi 

i| ig for turkey — nothing but tile 
ck Gobbler would satisfy him for a 
Than _ » dinner. 

I made up my mind that the 
char.; -cure the veteran was te 

"roost" him. to find where he had 
to roost and be there in the morning 
fore he awakened. Knowing : 
I put on a pair of waders and solas 
out into the swamp - where I 

waited for him to "fly up." You know 
Id turkey like that will always 
roost high and invariably over the wa 
The noise so large a bird will make 
mounting to a tree can be heard fully a 
half mile on a still evening. At last 
strnctly heard his flight, and from my 
ge of the ground could select the 
clump of cypres s in which 
he would be found in the morning. Sat- 
J that my opportunity had come. I 
went home to wait as patiently as pos- 
sible for daylight. 

Any man who has tried it will bear 

ut that i: is neve: to be up 

and out at three o'clock in the mo:: g 

as he thought it would be when he made 

his plans the night before. The Mexi- 

- mahana appeals to you as good 

horse sense about an hour before sunrise, 

when the north wind begins to whistle 

and there is ice in the washbowl. N 

ertheless. I was in the edge of that 

mp, two miles from the house, long 

ere it. 

As I waded through the water, here 
but a few inches deep. I heard something 
or someone softly following. I H course 
I stopped to listen, and. equally of course, 
the thing halted, whatever it was When 
1 moved on it came after me. pat. pat. 
pat, not many yards behind. Exasperated, 
I whirled with gun at shoulder, but there 
only blank darkness and dead si- 
lence. It was provoking to be stalked 

like a ewe lamb and not be able even to 

By and by. in one of the halts I made 
trying to see him. the animal purred like 
:. and that was what he was — 
the panther. I wished I wasn't there or 
the panther wasn't there or it was a 
trifle lighter. I wondered if the scoun- 
drel wasn't just about fool enough to 
jump on a man even when he had a gun. 
The Major had a nag with claw-marks 
on her hip. made by this very brute since 
my last experience with him. and one of 
the blacks was on the horse at the time 
it happened. "1 ou may be sure that I 

- careful not to trip or fall, for 
that might be a signal for him to 
close in. 

It is one thing to hunt a cowardly 
brute like a panther in daytime and an- 
other thing to be stalked by him on a 
dark night. He might pass me. climb a 
tree, and I couldn't see him until he fell 
on me like a battering ram. Besides. I 

sn't out for panther that morning, but 
for turkey, and I never like to shoot the 
things I didn't start after. It was bet- 
ter to go on than to stand still, so I held 
my course, but nobody could say that I 
didn't keep a sharp eye on my back trail. 
and I fully resolved to see that the 
Major put hounds after this impudent 
np right away, fully intending to fill 
his yellow hide with buckshot as soon as 
he was treed. 

jently I reached deeper water, and 
the rascal stopped with a slight squall, 
hich my turkey gobbled from his 
cypress perch. I went on. both relieved 
and elated. I was convinced that the 
puma would not take to deep water, cold 
as it was that morning, and I now knew 
exactly where to find the turkey. 

One cypress towered above the others, 
and I knew that was where the gobbler 
would be. though I could not see him. 
L nder the group of trees lay a great log. 
and with infinite caution, taking care 
not to make a sound or a splash, for the 
gobbler was awake. I made my way to 
the log and crawled upon it. confident 
that I had the Major's Thanksgiving 
turkey. I: was still too dark to shoot, 
that darkest time before dawn when the 
sun drives the night out of the sky and 
down among the trees. 



While sitting astride the log waiting 
for daybreak, I was startled to see a dim 
figure crouched on the other end about 
fifty feet away. I knew it wasn't a knot 
on the log, for it moved a trifle with a 
distinct rasping of the bark. Here was 
more trouble! Had that miserable pan- 
ther followed me anyhow? It didn't 
look like a cat — sat too erect. Could it 
be the bear? That mischievous red- 
headed brute wasn't much afraid of any- 
body. I believed it was he, but — it 
might be a man. Others were anxious 
to kill the Black Gobbler as well as my- 
self. Like me, he might be undecided as 
to whether his vis-a-vis was man or beast, 
and he, too, might be waiting to find out 
before he shot. 

Whichever it was, bear, panther, or 
hunter, the fellow knew I was there and 
was waiting for me to open the game. 
If I shot at the figure I might kill a man. 
and, on the other hand, he was liable to 
mistake me for a bear and blaze away. 
Should I speak to him and it wasn't a 
man, the creature would escape by sli- 
ding off the log into the black darkne-s. 
and the turkey would hear my voice and 
fly away. I had always wanted to kill 
a bear, and a better opportunity would 
never come. Wasn't it worth while to 
take the risk? No. I dare not chance 
shooting a human being. 

I could see nothing for it but to wait 
for light, and waiting was dangerous. 
If the figure was that of a man. and if, 
getting impatient, he concluded to take 
a crack at me, I couldn't believe that he 
would hit me elsewhere than right in 
the stomach, tearing a hole as big as my 
hat. I knew that I should fall off the 
log into the water, which would run 
through me from end to end. My stom- 
ach sickened with the notion. I had a 
dozen buckshot in one barrel of my gun. 
plenty to kill a bear, but too many to 
put into a man. I speculated as to what 
kind of a gun and load the other fellow 
had — a rifle wouldn't spoil one's looks so 
badly at the funeral. 

All this time I knew in my heart that 
it could be nothing but a bear, that ma- 
licious, red-headed, black imp of a bear. 
I had my gun covering him with the 
hammers raised, but could not detect a 

single outline which vvould absolutely 
prove him to be either bear or human. 
He sat erect without sound or move- 
ment, and, daring neithe/ to run nor to 
shoot nor to yell, I sat tight and shook 
till the log quivered. 

The coming day lightly touched the 
tops of the tall cypress. Glancing up 
cautiously, keeping one eye on the bear 
or the fool hunter — if such he was — I 
saw the Black Gobbler, light glinting on 
his feathers where the wind ruffled them. 
He was almost above me and easily with- 
in range. Nothing prevented me from 
shooting him except the bear, but I 
wanted bear worse than I did turkey. 
He had scared me and I resented it. 
Wait a minute, you black villain, till 
the light comes down! 

All at once there came a wailing, 
laughing, crying, crazy yell from behind 
and in front and all around me. It beat 
down on me. glued me to the log like a 
cowboy to a bucking bronco. Certain 
the beast was right above me, that he 
was preparing to spring, when I did 
move I went up as suddenly as jack 
from his box — my only thought to kill 
the beast before he landed on my shoul- 
ders. I couldn't see the panther, never 
did see him, never knew precisely how 
close he was to me. 

At the puma's scream, quick as a flash, 
v\ith a loud whoof, whoof, whoof, the 
bear plunged off the log into the black 
swamp-water. I ran to his end of the 
log, but. swimming low. passing behind 
trees. I couldn't catch the least glimpse 
of him — never saw him again until long 

Disturbed and indignant at all the 
uncalled-for commotion beneath, the tur- 
key let loose a tremendous gobble and 
then fairly shook the tree as he launched 
his forty pounds of solid turkey flesh into 
the air. As he crossed an opening be- 
tween me and the brightening sky I noted 
that he was jet black, that he was as big 
as an airship, and that his wings roared 
like a cyclone. 

.As I waded home, empty-handed, hun- 
gry, and highly exasperated. I could 
think of nothing but what would have 
happened had either of the others been 



Illustrated with Photographs 

The Ambitious Fisherman Need Not Stop Just Because the Supply 
of Daylight Is Exhausted 

NCE upon a time some ar- 
dent fisherman, with a 
bravery akin to that of 
the man who first ate an 
oyster, reasoned that since 
bass were night feeders he 
ought to be able, by risking the ridicule 
of his fellows, to do some good work 
with his trusty casting rod between the 
hours of sunset and sunrise; to this man 
we owe the introduction of the newest 
form of angling. In short, his experi- 
ment was a success, and from that time 
on reports of big catches made by the 
"moonlight" fishermen have been of com- 
mon occurrence. 

The sport of night casting opens up a 
vista of pleasant possibilities to the busy 
man tied to his office in the daytime and 
hence deprived of the "plop" of the well- 
cast lure and the music of the singing 
reel ; under the new conditions he can 
close his desk with a clear conscience at 
the end of the day, drop a few "plugs" 
into his pocket, and seek the nearest lake 
or river with every prospect of having a 
few hours' fun. 

And it is fun, believe me; the mystery 
and quiet of the night, the coolness, the 
sense of aloofness from all ordinary cares 
— above all the outdoor sounds and 
smells would well repay him even if he 
failed to catch a fish. To connect up 
with a big one (and not only does the 
catch run larger than in day fishing, but 
because they are invisible even the small- 
er fish seem to you potential record break- 
ers) ; to know that bre'r bass is putting 
up a fight for his life somewhere out in 
the dark, your knowledge of the battle's 
progress being conveyed to you along the 
tingling line — there's nothing like it! 


Perhaps you've tried the game, and if 
so nothing that I can say will increase 
your interest; if you have not, it may be 
that a few words as to the modus oper- 
andi will do no harm. At first glance, 
this sport might seem closely akin to day- 
light casting, implying the same methods 
and lures ; to a certain extent this is cor- 
rect, and the same skill and much of the 
same tackle which have won success in 
ordinary casting will prove effective in 
the new T er style. On the other hand, 
the darkness — for even moonlight is not 
essential — introduces other factors whose 
consideration will add much to your 

Thus, while the ordinary lures will 
work well as far as connecting with the 
fish are concerned, they are going to 
cause you unlimited trouble in casting 
among the pads and close to the weedy 
shores which your quarry frequents. It 
is sometimes hard enough to place a lure 
exactly where you wish even when you 
can keep your eye on it, but when you've 
got to cast with only your sense of dis- 
tance and direction as a guide ! Further- 
more, you will at least double your pro- 
portion of backlashes, the difficulty of un- 
tangling which is increased by the dark- 
ness; with an underwater bait this is 
either going to mean mighty quick work 
or a deal of stump pulling. 

But as at night bass usually feed near 
the surface and in shallow water, some 
type of surface bait will not only prove 
the most effective but will float itself 
and your line while you are untangling 
a snarl ; besides, to lessen the difficulty 
of directing your casts, as well as to 
make their lures more effective, many 
manufacturers have placed luminous 




baits of this type upon the mar- 
ket. Such lures may be placed 
with comparative nicety, which 
is the fundamental principle of 
good casting,' and they serve as 
a guide not only during the pro- 
gress of the fight but when the 
time comes to use net or gaff as 

Several lures of this style are 
illustrated, and may be taken as 
typical; the one with guarded 
hooks may be cast into the thick 
pads or rushes where large- 
mouth bass are apt to be found 
without danger of fouling. The 
luminous quality of each of these 
is due to the paint with which 
they are coated ; to secure the 
proper effect of this finish one must 
expose them to light (not bright sun- 
shine) for half an hour, and then leave 
them in an open box until ready to begin 
casting. Non-luminous baits of other 
types may be used with success, also, al- 
though their handling is attended with 
more or less difficulty. 

In a preceding paragraph mention 
was made of the increasing tendency to 
backlash in the darkness; should you in- 
tend to do much night casting, an in- 
vestment in an anti-backlash or self- 
thumbing reel might well repay you. 
Apparatus of this kind is fitted with inte- 
rior brakes whose application is governed 
entirely by the speed at which the bait 
is taking out the line; as it slows up — 
either due to the pressure of a strong 
wind or as the end of the cast is reached 
— the action of the brake is increased, 
and the reel kept from overrunning. 
About the only possible way in which 
standard makes of this type may be 
fouled is when the line is wound un- 
evenly upon the reel, thus causing the 
line to pile or slide and bind a coil or so 



in beneath; to avoid this, spoolers or 
even-winders to be fitted to the front of 
the reel are on the market, and do the 
work more or less satisfactorily. 

The illustration shows the writer's 
self-thumbing reel with spooler attached, 
which has proved an effective combina- 
tion — although one which he would not 
recommend for daylight use as robbing 
the sport of a desirable element of uncer- 
tainty. At night you don't have to worry 
about giving a bass a fair show — he'll 
take it! 

So much for the tackle — now for the 
method of handling. Long casts are un- 
necessary and need not be attempted, but 
the boat should be rowed or paddled gen- 
tly to the feeding grounds where the 
angler may either cast to the rise, if the 
bass are jumping, or else cast into likely 
spots as in everyday work. The boat 
should be a wide, flat-bottomed affair 
and but one man should cast — as much 
as possible from a sitting position and 
from the end of the boat farthest from 
the oarsman. A standing position is a 
menace to safety, while the greatest pos- 
sible distance between caster and oars- 
man is none too far — several burrs of 
treble hooks actuated by a powerful arm 
and a short, stiff rod will make a horrible 
wound, and should, therefore, be treat- 
ed with the respect accorded to a can of 

Even with a luminous bait your strike 
will have to be governed largely by in- 
stinct, and for this reason a large pro- 



portion of the fish striking are eventually 
lost; this simply increases the sport. To 
offset this disadvantage, should you con- 
sider it such, is the fact that at night the 
bass are feeding and not playing; the 
result is a savage, whole-hearted smash 
at the lure that will send a tingle up your 
action arm and make you think that 
you've . stuck the rod into a buzz-saw. 
More skill, too, must be exercised in 
playing your fish, and a false move with 
the landing net is to be avoided ; the saf- 
est plan is to exhaust your fish entirely 
before making any attempt to land him. 
Night casting is effective at all seasons, 
even during the sultry weather of July 
and August, when the day fisherman 
finds difficulty in winning a strike; they 

may lie half-dormant in the deep water 
during the day, but at night enter the 
shallows to feed. Moreover, in those 
lakes where bass are known to exist but 
where they refuse ordinarily to take an 
artificial bait they will often respond to 
this newer method of angling. 

The new sport is well worth a trial to 
the fisherman who is in search of both 
fish and thrills ; it is not in any way tak- 
ing advantage of the bass, for the odds 
are even more in favor of the latter than 
in day fishing. At any rate, the busy man 
may thus enjoy his favorite sport under 
ideal conditions and without the neces- 
sity of asking "The Boss" for a day off 
— and we all have a boss, you know, 
whether it is ourselves or another. 

^ ~^V 

In the May OUTING Mr. Oskison tells how he hit 
the trail with one of the Indian hunters and paid in 
fatigue and dust and hunger and thirst for his deer. 



Both Sides of the Struggle That Ensues When Craft Above Meets 

Craft Below 

THE article which follows is in the nature of treasure trove. 
It has lain for many years buried and unknown in the editorial 
files and now comes to light as fresh and readable as when it was 
first put on paper. There have been few writers on fishing who 
could endow that sport with the quiet charm and acute sense of 
perception that were the secret of the wide popularity of Mr. 
Harris, and no apologies are due or offered for the late appearance 
of the article which follows. 

^iWO meditative black bass 
lay at the bottom of a 
three-foot pool, side by 
side, under the protecting 
shadow of a shelving 
rock. Meditative, because 
in that thoughtful, self - appreciative 
mood, the keen enjoyment of which, by 
mortals, is often marred by the slightest 
movement of a muscle. 

The bass lay still, but conscious, their 
tails silently seesawing the quiet waters; 
their pectoral fins gently waving up and 
down, as if to the music of some sub- 
marine melody. 

One of these two basses knew a thing 
or two beyond his brethren of the pools. 
He was the heftiest of them all, and a 
sort of patriarch among the in-dwellers 
of the rocks and riffles. They knew and 
called upon him as Old Scales, and many 
a young fish had a narrow escape from 
the pan, when heedless of the old fellow's 
sage counsels. 

His companion, or pool mate, Young 
Fin, was some years his junior; in fact, 
his spawn-child, and was content to bask, 
or rather lave, in the consciousness of 
Old Scales' knowledge of the ins and 
outs of fish life. 


The day was getting old, and here and 
there the irregular hills on the western 

side of the pool threw dark bands of 
shadow upon the bright surface of the 
water. It was the hour for sentiment 
and fishing. 

Two anglers stood upon the eastern 
bank of the pool, beyond the reach of the 
shadows of the hills, with the glare of 
the sun broad upon the bronze and lily 
of their respective faces. Behold the 
Master and the Tyro! 

Both were young; indeed, it would be 
hard to tell over which the most years 
had passed, as they stand a little back 
from the margin of the pool, pre- 
paring their tackle for the work that 
lies before them. 

The Master, he with the bronzed 
cheek, leisurely inserts the line through 
the rings of each section of his rod, and 
joints and lines them alternately, while 
the Tyro nervously and clumsily joins 
all the three sections, and then roughly 
pulls his line through the guides, his rod 
arching like a hard-drawn bow, and the 
delicate tip bending under the strain, 
with breakage danger not far to leeward. 
He is nervous for fear his companion get 
the first cast upon the likely pool before 
them, in whose cool depths repose in 
kingly content Old Scales and Young 

Without the capacity of originating a 
nomenclature, mankind would have been 
Babel-ruined forever; hence our tyro is 




known as Tuck, and he of the bronzed 
aspect as Gill. 

Tuck, having joined his rod and ad- 
justed his line, takes from the breast 
pocket of his coat an overgrown pocket- 
book, vhose bulging sides indicate its 
well-packed contents. He calls it a fly- 
book ; Gill says it is a hybrid between an 
old woman's reticule and a butcher's 

As Tuck opens it and takes from a 
pocket a cranky coil of silken gut we see 
an ample store of feathered lures within, 
ranging in color and size from the dimin- 
utive gray gnat to the half-ounce rain- 
bow bass fly; the latter made by a crack 
fish tackier, and sold with a guarantee 
that it is sure to kill, which it would be 
certain to do were it to hit the head of a 
bass either in or out of the water. 

Tying his leader to the handline with 
a knot as big as a horse-fly, Tuck selects 
three of the largest bugs in his book, and 
with eager hands loops them, six inches 
apart, to the gut of his leader, which, 
owing to its dryness, dancing and dan- 
gling in the air, coils around his hand. 
Determined to have the first cast, Tuck 
steps hastily to the brink of the pool, 
then, raising and throwing his arm be- 
hind him, and bracing every joint from 
shoulder to finger end, with a stiff, rapid 
movement he slaps the tip of his rod into 
the water, and line, leader, and flies, 
bunched and knotted, are sent with a 
great splash, kaslosh, on the quiet bosom 
of the pool. 

"Tuck, old boy, hold up there!" cries 
Gill, who, with his back to the pool, is 
quietly making up his delicate cast of 
flies. "Hold up, don't throw stones into 
the water, you'll scare every bass away." 


If it be the power of fish to chew the 
cud, and I sometimes believe that this 
happy gift of blended action and repose 
is within their reach, Old Scales and 
Young Fin were certainly in that happy 
state of contentment with things below, 
and ignorance of things evil above, when 
they were suddenly startled by the tu- 
mult of the water caused by Tuck's first 

No old fish, true to his instincts, but 

has a danger hole for refuge in times 
commotional, and Old Scales, in a flash, 
was imbedded, body and tail, between 
two rocks overhung with river grass. 
Young Fin, with no wise precautionary 
measures, darted hither and thither, be- 
reft of all sense, except the one acutely 
startled by the splash of Tuck's cast. He 
at last found quiet and apparent safety in 
the channel of the river. 

The pool, which a few moments be- 
fore was alive with fish, became in an 
instant as dead and barren as a burned 
prairie. Not a fin was to be seen. Even 
the circling water beetle had disappeared 
from the surface, and the silvered min- 
now from the shallows. 

Ten minutes passed and, one by one, 
its scaly denizens peopled again the wa- 
ters of the beautiful pool. Old Scales, 
with the caution of years upon him, was 
the last to find his way to the sheltering 
rock, where Young Fin was found as 
happy, and as forgetful of the past, as the 
veriest fry that ever was spawned. 

"I guess that noise was made by a 
hawk who nipped a young one from us," 
said Old Scales, as he stiffened the rays 
of his dorsal, a sure sign that his spirits 
were slightly perturbed. 

"I think so, too," was Young Fin's 
reply, made from courtesy, backed by the 
knowledge of the throat capacity of Old 
Scales, who had been known on lesser 
provocation than an uncivil answer to 
swallow an offensive youngster. 

"Come back, you young fool," cried 
Old Scales, as Young Fin darted upward 
like a streak of lightning at the rough 
semblance of a May fly which appeared 
on the surface of the pool. "Come back, 
I say ; can't you see that great rope drag- 
ging the bug 'gainst stream? Come 
back!" and Young Fin halted, cast a 
wistful eye upward, turned tail and 
floated once more stationary under the 
protecting fins of Old Scales. 

"Don't do it," replied Old Scales, as 
Young Fin asked tearfully for a snap at 
a black bug above. It was the last of a 
dozen or more that had lit with a thud 
upon the waters, and the youngster was 
getting hungry. "Don't do it," repeated 



Old Scales. "Don't you sec that man up 
there with a stick and a string? Don't 
you see him? He's right there with the 
sun on him. He's got dead bugs to his 
string. Can't you see him throw 'em?" 


"I threw no stone," replied Tuck; "it 
was my confounded leader and flies, that 
seem to be all tied up in a knot. Can 
you account for it, Gill?" 

"Certainly! You did not straighten 
your leader by putting it in the running 
water of the rift, which you should have 
done before adjusting your rod and line. 
Bring me your cast of flies and let me 
see them." 

Tuck bundles up rod, line, flies, and 
leader, the three latter in an inextricable 
tangle, and makes his way to Gill, who 
exclaims as soon as the half-ounce flies 
loom up in Tuck's leader: 

"Why, man, do you intend to brain 
your fish instead of hooking them, that 
you use these heavy weights?" 

Taking the jumble in hand, Gill soon 
unravels it, and quickly replacing the big 
gorgeous flies with three hackles, tied 
Palmer fashion, thick and bunchy, but 
not too heavy, in color, black, brown, 
and gray, he dismisses Tuck with a word 
of advice: 

"Try these, Tuck, and try also to un- 
joint yourself when you make a cast. In 
the forward cast use your wrist, not your 
shoulder, and don't be in such a hurry to 
recover your line. There, go about your 
business. I can't teach you, no man can 
teach another how to cast a fly. So go, 
and be happy and do your best." 

Gill wades quickly across the river to 
a favorite hole, where he knew the cop- 
pery beauties ought to be. 

Tuck goes back to his old pool and 
splashes its bosom most industriously, but 
without a rise. At last Tuck gives up in 
despair, and wades across to Gill, who 
has depleted his pool of all the biting fish 
it contained. 

"I say, Gill, I can't catch any over 
yonder; suppose you try it." 

"Not I, Tuck — at least not for half an 
hour. You have either driven every fish 
out of that pool or made them so shy 
they will not rise. Let them rest for a 

while, and I will see what I can do." 

So saying, Gill passed over to an ad- 
jacent rapid, made a cast, got a rise, and 
landed a skittish pounder after a play of 
a few minutes, during which, in his 
frantic efforts to loosen the hook from his 
mouth, the bass came out of the water 
three times. 

"I do really believe, Tuck, that a 
pound bass gives more sport and fights 
harder and with more spirit than the 
big fellows — those six-pounders that we 
hear so much about, but never catch. I 
have never landed a bass with a fly that 
weighed over three pounds, and I don't 
believe that anyone else ever did out of 
Pennsylvania waters." 

Humming a tune in accord with his 
deep convictions, Gill repeated his casts 
with varying success until the allotted 
half hour of rest for Tuck's pool had 
expired. By this time the shadows had 
broadened upon the face of the river, and 
the hush and beauty of a calm twilight 
was silently spreading over the water and 
the hills. 

"If fish are to be caught, this is the 
hour, and here is the place," said Gill, 
as he noiselessly waded into the rapid at 
the head of the pool, where Tuck had 
exhausted muscle, and fly-book, and pa- 
tience without success. 

"Why do you go out of your way to 
reach the east bank, when you can get 
such a lovely cast from this rock?" asked 
Tuck, as he saw Gill make a wide cir- 
cuit in order to reach the right bank of 
the pool. 

"Move gently, Tuck, and I will ex- 
plain. Although it is twilight, my rod, 
in the act of casting from the western 
bank, with the setting sun behind me, 
throws a shadow over the water, a slight 
one, to be sure, but sufficiently dense to 
alarm a suspicious fish; hence I intend 
to make my casts from the eastern bank, 
where the reflected light that comes from 
the west will fall upon me, so that no 
shadow of self and rod will be seen by 
the wary fish." 

Gill had now reached the spot desired, 
and was quietly examining his tackle, 
tightening the rod joints, testing the gut 
of his leader, and making up a new cast 
of flies, of which he used only two. He 
neatly looped to his leader a black hackle 



as a stretcher, and a gray and black one 
as a hand fly, placing them about thirty 
inches distant from each other. These 
flies were of his own make. They were 
ugly, but good. He had a seven-ounce 
split bamboo, about ten feet long, and he 
used a nine-foot leader. 

Going above the rapid, his first cast, 
about twenty-five feet, was across its 
head, then inch by inch he corduroyed 
the rift with the drift and skitter of his 
bugs. No fish. When his flies reached 
the foot of the rapid, where it lost itself 
in the pool below, he stepped farther 
back to make a longer cast, rightly judg- 
ing that the greater the distance the 
greater the security from the keen senses 
cf the bass. 

It was a beautiful throw — at least 
fifty feet — with the black hackle flutter- 
ing through the air, hovering ere it fell, 
like a feather, upon the deepest patch 
of shadow that rested on the bosom of 
the pool. 

A break in the water — a splash — little 
white caps here and there — a turn of 
the wrist — and the fight began. 



The growing twilight above had dark- 
ened the pool below, and the dusky forms 
of Old Scales and Young Fin could 
scarcely be traced as they lay side by 
side, under the hanging rock. The old 
one, grown suspicious from seeing the 
big body of incautious Tuck on the bank, 
and the awkward trailing of his line in 
the water, has -restrained himself, as 
well as Young Fin, from wandering in 
search of food, until both of them began 
to feel the gnawings of a growing ap- 

Not an insect had alighted on the face 
of the pool, nor a bug, nor a worm, had 
drifted down from the rapid above. 

Suddenly, Old Scales expanded his 
great dorsal fins, raised his body almost 
perpendicular, and then, with head erect 
and eyes bulging to the full in their sock- 
ets, he seemed to be straining soul and 
nerve in hungry expectancy. He had 
seen the fluttering hackle which Gill had 
so deftly thrown over the pool, as it 

poised in the air. At last it fell upon the 
water. With the speed of light Old 
Scales struck the lure and the cruel barb 
was in his throat. 


The fight began. Out of the water at 
least three feet, with his big head shak- 
ing like a terrier's when killing a rat, 
Old Scales came thrice, seeking and now 
and then getting, a slack line, but only 
for a moment, for the obedient rod took 
up the spirit and the skill of its holder. 
It seemed to be gifted, in its yielding 
resistance, with an intuitive foresight of 
every movement of the fish. 

Old Scales had been there before, and 
had conquered, and he fought the harder 
from his knowledge of the past, try- 
ing every fish-dodge known und'er the 

At last, finding that coming out of the 
wet did not avail, he went down and 
staid there. He sulked. 

Gill, like all other experienced anglers, 
knew well that this trick meant rest — 
recuperation — and that when the fight 
was renewed his fish would contest it 
inch by inch with all of his original skill 
and vigor. 

What was to be done? 

Strike the hook deeper and deeper in- 
to the sulking rascal ! The only response 
is a succession of tugs from the fish, 
only to be compared to the sturdy, per- 
sistent jerks that a dog gives when one 
attempts to take a cloth, or a rope, from 
his mouth. 

Startle him with a pebble or two 
thiown into the pool? 

He only settles himself deeper and 
deeper until the bottom is reached, and 
stays there. 

There is but one resource left, and 
Gill avails himself of it. He puts his 
tackle to the test, and by main force 
drags Old Scales from his lair. No 
sooner does he feel the tightening strain 
upon him, than once more into the air 
he springs, but being skilfully met, and 
tightly held, he can do no more than 
surge and surge across the pool in des- 
perate efforts to free himself. 

"Ah! one more, if a last chance," he 
gasps, as he draws his muscles taut, in 



his struggles to reach a roek, which lies 
a few inches under the water. 

No you don't, Old Scales; that dodge 
is known, and you can't rub your nose 
against a rock or press the silken line 
around its sharp angles. 

Gill, having tried the strength of his 
tackle and found no failure there, holds 

his fish well in hand, and after a few 
more wild efforts Old Scales floats upon 
his side and surrenders his knightly spir- 
it, to animate, if such can be, some lordly 
salmon, or great leviathan of the deep. 
They could not own a greater. The 
Master Craftsman had conquered, above 
and below. 


AMATEUR fishermen may be di- 
vided into the "fussers" and the 
"anti-fussers." Those who, like myself, 
belong in the latter category and yet 
find workable and fairly sightly tackle an 
essential to the joy of the day will ap- 
preciate this little scheme. Dental floss, 
if taken on the fishing trip, will find 
many uses. It is cheap, purchasable 
anywhere, ready-waxed, strong, and flat. 

As an emergency or even permanent rod- 
wrapping it can be applied with a quar- 
ter the expenditure of time and trouble 
demanded by ordinary rod-silk ; is water- 
proof, much more durable, and presents 
an attractive semi-transparent appear- 
ance. It is usable even for emergency 
fly-tying and for any little repairs requir- 
ing wrapping, even so serious a matter 
as a broken rod. 



Illustrated with Diagrams 

Common Sense Measures That Every Camper Should Take to 
Insure Freedom from Disease 

'HE average camper, par- 
ticularly the novice, who 
goes to the country, into 
the woods and along the 
streams for an outing or 
in search of health, loses 
si2ht of the fact that sanitation there is 
just as essential as about the home. The 
out-of-doors is the greatest panacea for 
tired muscles, nerves, and brain, but in- 
difference and a tendency to carelessness 
on the part of the camper is liable to 
make his surroundings a menace. 

Since there is no organization among 
camping parties in state or nation, sta- 
tistics are not available of sickness and 
death directly traceable to unsanitary 
conditions. A cursory investigation in 
one's own neighborhood will show a 
number of such cases each summer, and 
when an estimated aggregate is consid- 
ered the disease and mortality rate will 
be found to be exceptionally high. 

Camp sanitation in the United States 
Army has been making great strides of 
late, as witness the recent Government 
reports, which show that in a year there 
have been but two cases of typhoid fever 
among 30,000 men in the field, and both 
of these with doubtful histories. From 
this the civilian camper can draw a valu- 
able lesson. A well-groomed and health- 
ful camp does not entail more labor than 
will add zest to the outing. Ordinary 
watchfulness and a few simple devices 
easily constructed are all that is called 
for to keep a camp healthful. 

The selection of a good camp site is of 
prime importance and calls for good 
judgment and care. In a general way 
the following principles will govern: 

Choose a location convenient to an 
abundant water-supply of unquestioned 


purity. Investigate the source of this 
supply, and if it is found to be contami- 
nated with surface drainage that cannot 
be readily prevented, or if the slope of 
the ground or pitch of rock strata indi- 
cates that there might be seepage from 
barnyards, cess-pools, and the like near- 
by the site is undesirable. If the water- 
supply is a spring or well otherwise un- 
contaminated except by surface drainage 
the pollution can be stopped by building 
a rim of puddled clay several inches high 
around the spring or well or on such 
sides from which the drainage comes. A 
gutter around the uphill side which will 
lead the objectionable water away from 
the spring or well will also answer. 

The site should be high enough and 
with such a slope that storm-water will 
drain off readily and, if the weather is 
warm, so located that there will be a 
free circulation of air. It should not 
be in proximity to marshes or stagnant 
water because of the dampness and the 
mosquitoes. Porous soils underlaid with 
gravelly subsoil will insure a dry camp 
at all times. A site on clay soil or where 
ground-water comes close to the surface 
is damp, cold, and unhealthful, as are 
likely to be alluvial soils and ground near 
the base of hills. The dry beds of 
streams are undesirable because of the 
danger of freshets. A site moderately 
shaded is always better than a dense 
woods or where vegetation is thick. 

Whenever possible avoid old camp 
sites. If about to pitch tents on such 
ground, however, thoroughly clean the 
place of all refuse such as straw, paper, 
leaves, tin cans, etc., and burn the rub- 
bish before the tents are erected. Pay 
particular attention to the burning over 
of old sinks and places where organic 


Cross Section Plan of Camp Fire and Incinerator. 

A — Fire Jack. B — Surface of Ground. C — Broken Stone in Pit. 

refuse has been deposited. Old camp 
sites are often permeated by the elements 
of disease, which persist for long periods, 
hence too much care cannot be taken in 
the cleaning up. 

Granted that a sanitary camp site has 
been selected, it is necessary to keep it 
so. The greatest sources of contamina- 
tion about the camp are the kitchen and 
the soil sink. Flies and mosquitoes are 
the instruments which carry disease. The 
source of contamination is also the breed- 
ing-place of flies and mosquitoes, where- 
fore if the kitchen and the sink are kept 
clean there will be no flies and no dis- 

The carefree life in the open is apt to 
make the camper indifferent as to where 
the offal from the kitchen is deposited 
and in what condition the sinks are kept, 
just as long as his senses are not offended. 
Fire is a positive destroyer of germs and 
that upon which germs thrive. Burn all 
solid kitchen refuse and dispose of the 
liquids in seepage pits carefully screened 
from flies. 

The camp-fire is the best means of dis- 
posing of all solid kitchen refuse, and, if 
properly constructed, can be utilized to 
get rid of the liquids as well. Such a 
camp-fire can be constructed as follows: 

Dig a trench of a width so that the 
firejack — sometimes called buzzacott — 
will rest firmly on the edges without 
danger of caving in when the weight of 
cooking utensils is upon it. Make the 
trench about a foot longer at each end 
than the length of the firejack and slope 
the bottom from each end of the trench 
toward the middle to a depth of from 
eighteen inches to two feet. This will 
make a trench somewhat like a basin. 
Fill in with large stones — slate or stones 
with many seams should be avoided — to 
within a few inches of the top of the 
trench, this to be determined by the 
height of the firejack and the size of the 
wood to be burned. Upon these stones 
build the fire. 

With such a fireplace all kitchen ref- 
use, liquid and solid, can be poured into 
the trench at each end. The liquids will 

A— Pit. 

Cover Excreta. I — Muslin or Board Screen Around Seat 
B — Wooden Funnel into Pit. C — Earth and Sod Covering. D — Sticks Forming Support for 
Covering. E — Lid over Funnel. F — Screen. G — Porous Earth. 


Cross Section Detail of Sink Seat with Self-closing Lid. 
A— Self-closing Lid. B — Seat. C — Supports for Back Rest. D— Back Rest. E — Post to Support 
Screen. F — Trench. G — Braces to Support Seat. H — Earth Taken from Pit and Used Again to 
Cover Excreta. 1 — Muslin or Board Screen Around Seat. 

go to the bottom into the interstices be- 
tween the stones, and will be evaporated 
without smothering the fire. The sol- 
ids, which will remain near the top, will 
be burned. 

A similar fireplace can be used when a 
firejack is not at hand. The trench 
should then be made just wide enough so 
that the kettles can span it and the spaces 
between the kettles can be filled in with 
stones and clay, leaving a flue under- 
neath in which the fire burns. The 
draft in such a fireplace will be im- 
proved by erecting a clay or stone chim- 


ney at one end of the trench. It is ob- 
vious that a similar fire trench will an- 
swer when the cooking is done in kettles 
suspended from a pole. Many campers 
use old stove tops which are supported 
by clay or stone walls, erected on three 
sides, upon which to do their cooking. 
Such a stove can be used as an incinera- 
tor by digging a hole inside the walls and 
filling it up with stones to the required 

When a camp range is used dig seep- 
age pits in which to dispose of liquid 
waste. Place these in porous ground if 

A— Posts. 

Plan for Screen about Sink. 
A to A — Muslin Screen. B — Entrance. 

C— Sink Trench. 

such is to be found, and where they will 
not endanger the water-supply. The 
size of such pits will depend largely upon 
the number of persons in the camp. To 
construct a sanitary seepage pit simply 
dig a hole of the required size and cover 
it with sticks laid closely together over 
which place sod and earth, leaving an 
opening through which to pour the 
water. Provide the opening with a wire 
screen — if this is not available a piece of 
burlap or other coarse cloth will answer 
through which to drain the water to re- 
move all organic solids. Always keep 
the opening in the top of the pit covered 
with a board, stone, or piece of sod. 
Burn the solids collected by the screen in 
the range or a fire kept burning for that 

When canned goods are used to supply 
the table always burn the cans before dis- 
posing of them. The indifferent cook who 
throws these cans indiscriminately about 
the camp is responsible for the presence 
of many mosquitoes. These pests breed 
in stagnant water, and just a small 
amount in a tin can is an ideal place for 
their propagation. If these cans are 
thrown together on heaps or loosely 
about the ground they soon gather water 
from the rains, or even from the dews, 
and the mosquitoes get a start. 

Throw all tin cans into the fire. 
There whatever of foodstuff remains 
upon them will be burned and in a short 
time the solder of the joints will melt so 
that there remain but loose pieces of tin, 
which can easily be flattened out and 
which no longer will form receptacles for 
the lodgment of water. 

If no one has prepared the camp site 
in advance of the arrival of the party, the 
first thing to be done after tents are 
pitched is the construction of the soil 
sink. This is a matter of great impor- 
tance, and to slight any precaution in its 
proper construction is to court sickness 
and death. The most serious diseases 
contracted in camps are spread from hu- 
man excreta. 

Locate the sink where it will not pol- 
lute the water-supply, either by seepage 
or overflow, where it will not fill up 
from surface drainage, out of sight of 
the camp if convenient, and where the 
slightest odors will not permeate the 
area occupied by the tents. The size of 
the trench will depend upon the length 
of time the camp site is to be occupied 
and the number of persons in the party. 
For ten or more it should be at least 
six feet deep and about two feet wide. 

Provide the sink with seats and back- 
rests of poles or better material if at 




hand. In camps extending over long pe- 
riods in summer steps should be taken 
to have seats covered with muslin down 
to the ground and provided with self- 
closing lids, since open pits are danger- 
ous during the fly season. A piece of 
board over the hole in the seat, fastened 
at the back with a hinge made of iron, 
leather rope or coarse canvas, will make 
a lid. If the back rest is so placed that 
when the lid is open it is at an angle 
with the seat of less than ninety degrees 
it will always close automatically by 

The danger from flies, however, can 
be greatly reduced by covering the ex- 
creta with earth. Lime, if available, and 
the wood ashes from the fire should also 
be placed in the pit every day. The en- 
tire area of the trench should be burned 
thoroughly by means of combustible 
sweepings from the camp such as straw, 
leaves, and grass. Sprinkling the soil 
in the trench every day with oil is an 
excellent sanitary measure, and oil on 
the material burned in the trench will 
aid greatly in making the fire do the de- 
sired work. 

Clean up the camp-ground every day. 
Keep the kitchen tent well screened 
from flies and the foodstuffs in cool 

places where the flies cannot get at them. 
Pay particular attention to keeping the 
milk free from contamination. Thor- 
oughly ventilate the tents inside every 
day by raising the walls so that there will 
be a free circulation of air. Expose 
blankets to air and sunlight at least an 
hour every day if it is possible. Fill 
up pools of water that may form about 
the camp. Insist on a free use of boiling- 
hot water when washing the dishes, par- 
ticularly if granite-ware dishes are the 
ones used. 

When leaving a camp site which is 
likely to be occupied soon again by an- 
other party you owe it to your neighbor 
to clean up the place thoroughly before 
departure, just as you would expect a 
householder to clean the premises before 
moving out. Such would be a golden- 
rule policy. 

All this may appear like piling a lot of 
seemingly unnecessary labor upon the 
camper, but when it is summed up it 
will be found that it all amounts to less 
than it seems. In fact, all measures here 
suggested entail only enough labor to add 
zest to the outing and give, one an appe- 
tite which will not be gained by lounging 
about and letting one's health take 



A I ! our cheery riding-trail to Any-place, 
Trail that beckons on across a world of shining space- 
Bird in sunny skies, we love because we're wise — 
Stirrup-leather singing and the sun across her face! 
Ai ! my dreary riding-trail of tender lies, 
Steely blue above me where a hungry buzzard flies — 

Snake among the dust, we love because we must — 
Stirrup-leather creaking and the wind across my eyes! 



Edmund Davis, Who Introduced the Drop and the In-Curve at 
Princeton Nearly Fifty Years Ago 

^OR some years after the game 
was played such a thing as 
a pitcher curving a ball was 
unheard of. It is frequent- 
ly asserted that A. J. Cum- 
mings, the famous pitcher of 
the Excelsiors of Brooklyn, was the first 
pitcher to do this. Cummings did use 
a curved ball as early as 1867, and he 
was probably the first well-known pro- 
fessional pitcher to pitch curves after the 
baseball convention in the spring of 1867 
made a ruling that pitchers had to de- 
liver the ball with a straight arm move- 
ment ; that is, they would not be allowed 
to bend the arm at the elbow, a ruling 
which delayed the adoption of our mod- 
ern methods of pitching for ten years. 
At this time all balls were pitched under- 
hand and not thrown as they are to-day. 
One of the best-known pitchers of that 
time was McBride, of the Athletics of 
Philadelphia. He had a very effective 
underhand ball, but in delivering the 
ball he bent his arm at the elbow, and his 
friends asserted that the ruling requiring 
a straight-arm delivery was brought 
about by the clubs which could not easily 
hit his balls. McBride, however, was 
able to adapt himself to the new ruling 
and continued to pitch successfully for 
the Athletics for several years longer. 

The most famous college pitcher of 
that day, and undoubtedly the first pitch- 
er to use curved balls intelligently and 
successfully, was Edmund Davis, of 
Princeton. In the spring of 1866 Davis 
began to develop several styles of curves 
which afterward made him famous. He 
had been raised on a farm near Milton, 
Pa., and was sent to the Edge Hill Pre- 
paratory School at Princeton. Here, for 

the first time in his life, he saw round 
baseball bats. At home he and his com- 
panions had always used flat paddles 
with which to bat balls, and Davis soon 
figured it out that if a speedy ball with a 
fast perpendicular rotary motion were 
pitched, the ball, upon hitting the round 
bat, would very probably be deflected 
either upward or downward and the bat- 
ter easily put out. 

With this idea in view he worked 
hard, practising until he could pitch an 
effective ball with enough of a curve to 
puzzle all the batters on his school team. 
In the summer of 1866 Davis attained 
that ability as a pitcher to which he as- 
pired. After returning home from Edge 
Hill he practised daily pitching a ball 
against a brick wall for the purpose of 
acquiring such control over, and giving 
such a twist to the balls that he could 
tell just how they were going to bound 
if hit fairly. In this way he developed 
a drop ball and an incurve over which 
he had complete control. 

Before returning to Princeton as a 
freshman he organized a ball team in 
Milton in the summer of 1866 to play 
the teams from the surrounding towns, 
and he had the satisfaction of proving 
that his theory of pitching was correct, 
as the opposing teams could do nothing 
with his delivery, the batter striking six 
or seven inches above his drop ball, and 
his incurve, when hit, usually resulted 
in the ball going straight up in the air, 
so that either he or the catcher could 
get it. 

For several years after baseball was 
introduced at Princeton the games were 
confined to the different teams in the 
school, matches being played every week. 




The first game with an outside team was 
played with the Orange team at Orange, 
on October 22, 1860, which resulted in 
a tie score, each side getting forty-two 
runs. The first game with another col- 
lege was not played until four years la- 
ter, when the Nassau team, as the first 
Princeton team was called, defeated, the 
Williams College team at Princeton on 
November 22, 1864, by the score of 
twenty-seven to sixteen. 

When Davis entered Princeton in the 
fall of 1866 there were six different 
baseball teams in the college, and he was 
given a trial to see which of the teams 
he could make. To the surprise of 
everyone the diminutive freshman was 
made the regular pitcher of the first 
team, displacing a senior who had been 
the acknowledged leading pitcher for 
two or three years. One of the first im- 
portant games in which Davis pitched 
was the Freshman-Junior game, which 
was played shortly after he entered col- 
lege, and in which the Juniors did not 
succeed in batting the ball outside the 
diamond. From that time his position 
on the first team was assured. 

Presbrey, in his ''History of Athletics 
at Princeton," published in 1901, in 
speaking of Davis says, "All members 
of the Nassau nine of '66-'67 who are 
yet alive are firm in their statements that 
curves were first pitched at Princeton 
by Davis," and that "during the winter 
Davis would pitch in the long hall at the 
west end of North College where the 
students gathered to watch and to at- 
tempt to catch the balls he would pitch." 

At that time "live" balls were used, 
that is, balls which had a good bit of 
rubber in them, and when they were hit 
fairly they went far and fast. No 
gloves were used, and such a thing as a 
catcher's mask was unheard of, conse- 
quently injuries from foul tips and 
thrown or batted balls were more fre- 

quent than they are to-day. The pitcher 
in those days was handicapped by some 
of the rules of the game which have 
since been changed, and the odds were 
greatly against him and in favor of the 
batter. Balls were called against him, 
but the batter could let three good ones 
go by before a strike would be called. 

The batter had the privilege of calling 
where the ball must be pitched, whether 
knee-high, waist-high, or shoulder-high. 
The games were long, and as there were 
no foul strikes the strain on the pitchers 
was great. Whenever Davis was in the 
box the opposing batters would endeavor 
to wear him out by not striking at the 

Davis continued to pitch effectively at 
Princeton every week until June 1, 1867, 
when in the game between Nassau and 
Camden, whose players were mostly of 
the Athletics of Philadelphia, after three 
balls had been pitched the rule prohibit- 
ing the bending of the arm at the elbow 
was enforced against him and he was 
ruled out of the box. That was the last 
game in which he pitched at Princeton 
against an outside team, but during the 
summer vacations he pitched for the 
team of his home town of Milton where 
many victories over the teams from 
neighboring towns were credited to 

After Davis quit pitching at Princeton 
it was eight years before another pitcher 
there used curves, which from that time 
was recognized as the only effective style 
of delivery. 

The name of Edmund Davis may be 
unknown to any of the present-day base- 
ball players Outside of Princeton and 
Milton, where he is still living after 
many years of an active and successful 
career as a business man and banker, yet 
he is one of the men whose name should 
always be associated with the develop- 
ment of the great game of baseball. 

The next instalment of Mr. Griffith's story of his TWENTY- 
deal with the Milestones of the Game. He has seen it grow 
from practically nothing to its present huge proportions and 
knows the various stages that have marked its development 


Pleasures of the Footwear That the Red Man Made Famous 

*T means something more than just 
putting on the lightest, easiest, 
warmest footwear ever made — 
moccasin time. It brings with it 
the swish and creak of snowshoes, 
• the desire for great and satisfying 
physical exertion, the long, swift run at 
the tail of the husky-speeded toboggan. 
The peculiar, alluring odor of the In- 
dian tanning quickly passes from nos- 
tril to brain and arouses desires and im- 
pulses that may have been slumbering 
for generations. The moccasin is some- 
thing more than a shoe; it is a token, a 
fetish, a symbol. It leads, rather than 
carries, to the northland. 

In the forest country the moccasin is 
a necessity as well as a pleasure. Last 
Winter there were four months without 
a thaw, four months of dry, clean, feath- 
ery snow. When the first cold and 
snows of October come, the shoepacs 
and cruisers' shoes are laid aside for the 
leather-topped rubbers. In dry weather 
there is a return to the shoes, and then, 
in November, comes a cold snap and 
snow, and for half a day moccasins may 
be worn. 

Mercury's feet were never more 
winged than those of the man who first 
steps out in the light, soft, pliable af- 
fairs. A fly would not be crushed be- 
neath his feet, he is certain, so soft and 
light are his footfalls. On the trail a 
mile is easily added to the hourly total. 

After the heaviness of stiff leather and 
rubber, buckskin is feathery. 

And then, in December and later, 
when it is forty and fifty below, the un- 
restrained, uncramped foot remains as 
warm on the trail as it was beside the 
red-hot heater. Even in the lowest 
temperatures there is not a suggestion of 
chill during the long dash with the dogs. 

There are many sorts of moccasins, 
and there are few good ones. The av- 
erage purchaser can hardly do better 
than to buy the factory-made affair, al- 
though he must pay a good price to get 
anything that will wear. Such moc- 
casins are linen-sewed, and the best of 
such sewing will not withstand the strain 
of 'the trail. For the short journey they 
are adequate. 

The Indian-made moccasin is better, 
but harder to get. Indian moccasins of 
a sort are on sale at any trading post 
or north woods town, but most of them 
will wear out in a week or two. It is 
only the man traveling over a wide 
country who knows just where he can 
buy efficiently tanned buckskin or moose- 
hide, just which squaws can furnish dur- 
able footwear. The best moccasins will 
be sewed with animal sinews. They 
will not rip, even after the soles have 
been worn through. The usual Indian 
tanning robs the hide of all life and 
makes it thin, dry, and shoddy. There 
are a few Indians who can make won- 




derful leather by using the brains of 
the deer in tanning. 

Most Indians make moccasins with 
cloth tops. In many ways these are an 
advantage. They keep out all snow, 
and there are no stiff uppers to be 
rubbed into shape and chafe the ankles 
the morning after a wet day. The cloth 
will wear and tear in the brush, though 
I once wore a pair every day for five 
months. They were cloth-topped buck- 
skin and cost one dollar. 

Two pairs of hand-knit socks within 
a pair of moccasins are sufficient for 
any weather. The wearer must be care- 
ful in selecting moccasins that fit to at- 
tain the maximum warmth, however. 
It is not on the thickness of the leather, 

but upon the freedom of the foot's 
movements that warmth depends. The 
fit must be snug, but there must be 
ample room for the foot to spread and 
bend. A tight moccasin means frosted 
feet. A loose one robs the foot of its 
sureness and fleetness. 

There is no compromise between the 
soft moccasin and the waterproofed foot- 
wear. Oil-tanned leather is impossible 
in cold weather. It becomes stiff as 
steel and so slippery it is dangerous. But 
even with wet moccasins the traveler 
will be warm if he keeps moving. For 
that reason, and because of the wear of 
the trail, one or two extra pairs should 
be taken to provide dry footwear in the 





Fi»h English anglers have been 
Color- aroused by a letter to the 
BUnd Times by Sir Herbert Max- 
well on the value of color in salmon flies. 
Sir Herbert's contention is that there is 
no real reason for using gaudy colors for 
salmon, inasmuch as that fish has no 
sense of color. From the standpoint of 
fifty years' experience as a fisherman he 
says: "I should be perfectly willing to 
use no flies except those composed of the 
feathers of native game birds and barn- 
yard fowls, dyed or undyed, with silk 
and tinsel to smarten them up to human, 
if not piscine, vision." This opinion is 
especially pertinent in view of the argu- 
ment that has centered around the prohi- 
bition of the importation of plumage into 
this country. Many good trout fisher- 
men have predicted the end of real trout 
fishing as a result. Fly fishing is the 
only really sporting method, they argue. 
Good trout flies can be made only from 
the prohibited feathers, most of which 
are obtained from other countries. There- 
fore, no more flies and no more fishing. 
Perhaps we may discover that the trout 
is not so discriminating in the matter of 
color as we have thought. 

What Is Dr. Francis Ward, an Eng- 
tke lish angler-scientist who has 
e made experiments to deter- 
mine the relative values of various kinds 
of flies, and particularly the appearance 
of the flies when viewed from the under- 
water position of the fish, concludes that 
it is not the color but the flash and light 
of the fly that attracts the fish. As he 
says, "The only use of feathers is that 
by their movement in the water they 

suggest to the fish that the 'fly' is alive." 
The reason that one fly is more deadly 
than another on certain days or in certain 
water is explained by the more lifelike 
character of its flash or reflection. The 
same fly, as experiments have demon- 
strated, will have an entirely different 
appearance from different locations dur- 
ing the same cast. Flash apparently is 
only partially, and frequently not at all, 
a matter of color. In fact, the general 
tendency of all colors under water is to 
simulate the shade of their surroundings 
as a result of reflection and refraction. 
That at least is the opinion of Dr. Ward, 
based on numerous experiments. 

Coach The Football Rules Com- 
on the mittee has solved the prob- 
Bench lem of the coach on the field 
by restricting him to the bench on the 
side lines. That is, he may not follow 
the play up and down the field, as in 
the past and watch his team from a posi- 
tion only a little less advantageous than 
that of the referee. This is a good step 
and probably as long a one as was safe to 
take, at least at this time. Of course, 
it might have been possible to put him 
off the field entirely, perhaps up in the 
press stand; a coach might find a far 
worse place from which to see what his 
team is really doing. The new rule will 
not prevent a coach from sending in sub- 
stitutes as he chooses, whether for pur- 
poses of actual substitution or to carry 
instructions to the quarter-back. This is 
an evil that can hardly be eradicated by 
rules. Its elimination must await the 
growth of sentiment against it. Now 
and again even good coaches discover to 




their sorrow that a quarter-back who 
knows his business is frequently a better 
judge of the next play than the expert 
on the sidelines. A poor quarter-back 
will probably make a hash of his big. 
crisis, no matter how specific his instruc- 
tions from headquarters may be. 

Rights From the standpoint of the 
of the coach, that gentleman has 
^^ certain rights that the Rules 
Committee was bound to recognize and 
respect. On his shoulders rests the ma- 
jor responsibility for the formation of 
the team. If this is doubted consult the 
alumni of any college at the end of a 
disastrous season. Nine times out of ten 
it was the coach's fault, of course. 
Usually the undergraduate sentiment is 
the same, and probably stronger. That 
being the case, the coach must be given 
as free a hand as is consistent with the 
^general good of the game in working out 
his problems. The big game is the trial 
by fire for him, no less than for the play- 
ers on the field. He stands or falls by 
the outcome. Then common fairness de- 
mands that the support which has been 
permitted the team all through the sea- 
son should not suddenly be withdrawn in 
the crisis, especially since no jot or tittle 
of condemnation of the coach will be 
abated in case of failure. 

One Impor- If it were possible to minim- 

tant j ze the emphasis now placed 
Change Qn ^ WQrk Q f ^ QQ ^ 

throughout the year, it would not be a 
matter of so great importance where he 
sat during the game. But there is no 
indication that this is likely to happen. 
A few coaches are able to efface them- 
selves without damage to the team, but 
they are few. One result of this esti- 
mate of the necessity of the coach is the 
constant shifting and piling up of rules 
to which we have been subject. This 
year only one other change was deemed 
necessary in the football rules in conse- 
quence of this steady pressure of the 
coaching staff in devising new plays that 
are possible under the rules as they find 
them, but this one change throws the 
situation out in bold relief. Last fall 
Notre Dame demonstrated to the Army 
how the forward pasa might be effectu- 

ally guarded against interception in case 
the receivers were all thoroughly covered 
by the defense. The expedient was the 
simple one of throwing the ball on the 
ground for the loss of a down, the ball 
going in play at the old position. The 
Army noted this maneuver and used it 
against the Navy. It was then entirely 
permissible under the rules. The Rules 
Committee also noted it, and have now 
prohibited it. Henceforth the pass must 
be attempted, or the passer runs the risk 
of being downed for a loss behind his 
own line. 

Need of It is to be regretted that 
Fewer rules are necessary in such 
Kues complexity and with such 
constant shifting and variation, but un- 
der present circumstances it is unavoid- 
able. It is one of the penalties we must 
pay for keeping the game fluid and pro- 
gressive. The alternative is a static con- 
dition with the ever-present danger of a 
decay in interest consequent on the re- 
duction of the game to routine methods 
and principles. The great danger in re- 
liance on rules is that we may expect 
them to accomplish more than can ever 
be secured by law. It is an American 
tendency to expect to make men good by 
passing laws to punish them for being 
bad. Examples will spring to mind at 
once. Morality in sport, no less than in 
business, can hardly be brought about 
by passing laws against immorality. 
Amateurism and the proper attitude on 
the playing field are matters of the spirit 
rather than of rules, and the really ef- 
fective laws are those which are but crys- 
tallizations of the spirit. Too often a 
new rule is merely an added temptation 
to break or evade it. We must have 
them, of course, but let us have as few as 

Against Coach Courtney — "The Old 
Four-Mile Man" to thousands of Cor- 

Kowing ne lli ans the country over — is 
opposed to four-mile rowing. He be- 
lieves that the average student must 
choose between insufficient preparation 
for this gruelling contest and neglect of 
his studies. Our own idea exactly, and 
we are glad to hear Courtney speak out 
so plainly. Any way you look at it, it is 



too hard an event for most of the young 
men who take part in it, and if statistics 
were carefully taken we should be great- 
ly surprised if four-mile rowing did not 
show a higher proportion of serious in- 
jury and strain than football, despite the 
condemnation that the gridiron sport has 
received at various times. Not only is it 
too hard, but there is no fun connected 
with it. This is a more serious objec- 
tion than may appear on the face of it. 
On the other hand, a two-mile race or a 
mile and a half is not so brutally hard 
as to obscure the natural pleasure that 
comes to a healthy, well-conditioned man 
from a contest of any sort. If you don't 
enjoy your sport, half the good of it is 
gone at one stroke. 

Too Much Another statement that is 
Intercollegiate credited to Courtney is rath- 
Sport er surprising as coming from 
a man who makes his living by coaching 
a varsity team, but none the less appears 
sound in principle. He says: "We have 
arranged at Cornell for this year eighty- 
(six races and games (presumably he 
means intercollegiate). Have you ever 
stopped to think of the amount of time 
it takes to prepare the teams and crews 
for those games and races and to play the 
games and row the races, many of them 
out of town? Sit down for a day and 
figure it up and see if the faculty is not 
justified in saying that if the boys gave 
more time to their proper work and less 
to their athletics the university could 
turn out better men." In other words, 
a pyramid is a highly commendable form 
of construction, if we don't make the 
mistake of standing it wrong end up. 

Baseball The Melbourne (Australia) 
Too Age, having viewed a game 
between the two American 
teams on their recent visit to the Antipo- 
des, has no very high opinion of Amer- 
ica's favorite sport. In fact, it finds 
it rather suggestive of a large garden- 
party. "It reminds the Australian on- 
looker of his first open-air picnic. It is 
not, to tell the truth, the kind of pastime 
over which a crowd, other than an 
American crowd, would be expected to 
get excited. It is not calculated at this 
stage to supplant either cricket or foot- 

ball as a means of making a Melbourne 
holiday." There's an old adage about 
one man's meat being another man's poi- 
son, and adages are sometimes truthful. 
After all this isn't half as harsh as the 
things an American baseball reporter 
could find to say about a cricket match. 
And there you are. 

Support the An appeal for funds is being 
Boy made by the Boy Scouts of 
Scout* America in order to carry on 
and extend the work of this organiza- 
tion. There should be a wide and gen- 
erous response. The Boy Scout move- 
ment has passed through its formative 
stage and is now an accepted part of the 
training methods of the boys of the land. 
It is sound, healthy, and progressive in 
its aims and in the men and methods it 
has enlisted in their prosecution. The old 
bogies that were conjured up against it at 
the outset have disappeared and now its 
problem is one of extension and support. 

On Open- There is really only one 
i°g thing that many of our good 

Day and faithful readers are 
thinking about at this time of the year. 
The first of April is approaching — sin- 
ister date — and the ice is out of the 
streams. The big fellows may not rise 
very well so early in the season, but to 
wet a line on opening day is still a sacred 
duty. What matter if the air is raw and 
cold with more than a hint of depart- 
ing winter as the shadows^ lengthen in 
late afternoon? Who ever heard of a 
fisherman catching cold — or caring if he 
did? Perhaps the ice still clings to the 
banks in the deep shade or the brook 
runs dark and roily with snow water 
from the hills. What of that? Cold 
and hunger are nothing compared with 
the possibility of someone else lording 
it over you with a full catch while you 
sat snug at home because the weather 
was unfavorable. Better a dozen poor 
days than one good one missed because 
you were too lazy or soft to be at your 
post on the first possible day. 

Fishing Others may write of the 
Just for technique of fishing, of rods 



d flies and casting and 

playing and the rest. The list is end- 



less and the call not to be finally an- 
swered ever. For us, we know nothing 
of this side of fishing, except by observa- 
tion and hearsay. Men there be who 
can tell you to a fraction of an inch how 
far to carry your rod on the back cast 
and describe to a hair the exact turn of 
the wrist that drops the fly lightly on the 
water to the undoing of the unsuspecting 
trout that lurks below. We know that 
this is true because they have told us; 
but the instruction has left us unchanged. 
Our method is still the same bungling 
fling that it was in the beginning. And 
sometimes we catch fish and sometimes — 
more times — we don't. But always we 
have fun. This is not to say that the 
scientific angler doesn't enjoy himself 
also. Probably there is no joy in the 
world so keen as that which lies in know- 
ing any subject to the uttermost cranny 
— and sometimes beyond. This state- 
ment is offered in a purely conjectural 
spirit. It has no basis of experience in 
our own case. But as for the fun of fish- 
ing; that we know to the last line. Good 
method or bad, good luck or ill, wet day 
or dry, fishing is fun and don't you for- 
get. Don't be kept at home because you 
don't know all there is to know about 
the way to do it. Get out and try, some- 
how — anyhow. The other man may 
catch more fish and catch them better, 
but he won't catch any more fun. 

Sport for The old style gymnasium 
Every- drill has received another 
grievous wound in the house 
of its friends. Columbia University has 
decided to try the experiment of substi- 
tuting instruction in rowing, swimming, 
track work, and basket ball for the class 
drill on the floor of the gymnasium hith- 
erto required of freshmen and sopho- 
mores. The new plan started off with 
a rush so far as the interest of the stu- 
dents was concerned. Doubtless base- 
ball and soccer will be added to the list 
in the appropriate seasons. The squads 
will be under the direction of the uni- 
versity coaches in the respective sports, 
and at least one-half of the required 
gymnasium period must be spent in 
some one of the sports named above. 
There are numerous good points to this 
plan. In the first place, it should go 

far beyond the stereotyped gym drill in 
the interest aroused. If there is anything 
in the shape of exercise more dull and 
spiritless than the work of the average 
class of this sort we have yet to know 
what it is. Games of the sort prescribed 
should be better for all round develop- 
ment if proper instruction is supplied. 
Finally the ultimate result should be to 
raise the general level of athletic per- 
formance and spirit. One great diffi- 
culty in university sports of the organ- 
ized variety is to secure the backing of 
intelligent interest. This method should 
insure it. 

Better The principal point that 
Motor struck the close observer at 
Boat9 the recent Motor Boat Show 
at Madison Square Garden was the 
higher quality of the boats and engines 
displayed in comparison with former 
years. As a reflection of the healthy 
growth of the sport the Show was inter- 
esting, and indicated that those who take 
to the water for pleasure are becoming 
more "boat wise" and discriminate in 
their judgment. The character of the 
boats showed beyond a doubt the pre- 
vailing drift from the high-speed, lightly 
built open boat or hydroplane to a more 
substantial craft, and especially toward 
the small cruiser. This is a healthy sign 
and shows that power boat men are get- 
ting to be more appreciative of the pleas- 
ures of cruising, and want a boat in 
which they can take long trips along the 
coast or inland waters with safety and 
comfort. The whole trend of cruiser 
design was toward a more seaworthy, 
comfortable and easily handled type of 
craft. There were almost no speed boats 
exhibited at the show, and the fast runa- 
bouts for day use were of a much more 
substantial character. In fact there were 
no bad boats at the show this year, which 
can not be said of shows of the past. 
The greatest amount of pleasure to be 
derived from any boating is in navigating 
the craft yourself and getting into un- 
familiar waters. To do this, something 
more than a smooth-water speed crea- 
tion is wanted. The boatbuilders and 
engine manufacturers are waking up to 
this fact, and giving to the boat users 
the kind of a craft that they want. 


f^lVE me a day of clear sunshine and crisp wind, a 
turf that springs like velvet beneath the feet, and a 
green that plays fair with a rolling ball. Grant that my 
brassey may clip the ball clean from a fair lie and that 
my niblick ma ^ n °l f a ^ me ' n the hour of need. Help 
me to pitch my approach shots fair to the green and lay 
my long puts dead to the hole. Above all give me 
strength of will to k ee P Tr) y e if e on the ball and my tem- 
per under a firm check- Then will my partner bless and 
praise my name forevermore, nor will I find that all the 
matches have been made up the day before. 

*%?•> --J^r >***%, 



takes you far [nto the hills and among canyons that are huge 
slits in the tortured earth ; this one was called by the indians 

"devil's canyon" 

Illustration for "With Apache Deer Hunters in Arizona," page 150. 




Illustratf.d with Photographs 


LAST month Mr. White outlined the character of his recent 
travels in German East Africa which carried him into un- 
known hunting fields. He told of the general character of the 
country, the advantages that it offers for the sportsman and natural- 
ist, and the reasons for its having remained unexplored and 
unknown until this late date. Now he takes up the tale of his 
actual travels. It is preeminently an American expedition, out- 
fitted and handled in plains and mountain fashion, rather than 
according to the methods of the British safaris that have made 
British East Africa famous. 

— * VERYTHING being as 
near ready as human fore- 

a thought could make it, we 

left Nairobi in the first part 
of July. It took us all the 
^ morning to get our men and 
donkeys under way, and we followed 
gaily a-mule-back a couple of hours later. 
Once clear of town our way led' us out to 
a rolling, wooded, green country of glades 
and openings, little streams and speckled 
sunlight. Forest paths branched off in 
all directions. Natives were singing and 
chanting near and far. There were 
many birds. 

Toward evening, we passed a long 
safari of native women, each bent for- 

ward under a load of firewood that 
weighed sixty to one hundred pounds. 
Even the littlest little girls carried their 
share. They seemed cheerful and were 
taking the really hard work as a tremen- 
dous joke. We passed them, strung out 
singly and in groups, for upwards of half 
an hour, then their road turned off from 
ours, and still they had not ceased. 

After a pleasant nine-mile ride we 
camped at a spot at which it had been 
arranged we were to meet guides to 
take us across the waterless tracts be- 
yond N'gong. In order to be good and 
ready for said guides we next morning 
ate breakfast in the dark, and sat down 
to wait. About eight o'clock they 

Copyright, 1914, by Outing Publishing Co. All rights reserved. 



drifted in. Then, of course, as usual 
in Africa, we found that the track we 
were on and had been advised to take 
was all wrong. Therefore, after a long 
council, we headed at right angles for 
the Kedong. It was a park country all 
day with forests, groves, open mead- 
ows, side hill shambas, or native farms, 
and beautiful, intimate prospects through 
trees. Kikuyus were everywhere. 

Everything went nobly until about 
ten o'clock, when we came to a little 
boggy stream, insignificant to look at, 
and unimportant to porters, but evi- 
dently terrible to donkeys. We built a 
causeway of branches, rushes, earth 
and miscellaneous rubbish, and then set 
in to get our faithful friends to use it. 
Right there we discovered that when a 
donkey gets discouraged over anything, 
he simply lies down, and has to be lifted 
bodily to a pair of very limber legs be- 
fore lie will go on. Luckily, these were 
-mill donkeys; we lifted most of them. 
After a time we topped a ridge and 
came out on rolling grass hills, with 

I I32J 

lakes of grass in valleys, and cattle feed- 
ing and a distant uplift that marked the 
lip of the Likipia Escarpment. 

At two o'clock, we made camp in 
the high grass atop one of these sw T ells, 
and all afternoon we worked busily 
remedying defects in our saddlery, rivet- 
ing, sewing and cutting. That night 
we heard again our old friends, the fever 

Daylight showed us a beautiful spec- 
tacle of lakes of fog in the shallow val- 
leys below T us, and trailing mists along 
the hills, and ghostlike trees through 
thin fog. We stumbled for a time over 
lava debris under the long grass. At 
the end of an hour or so the sun had 
burned the fog — and dried our legs. 
We came to the edge of the Escarpment 
and looked down at the Kedong. Atop 
the bench we saw our first game — a 
herd of impalla and twelve zebra. Then 
we went down twenty-four hundred 
feet, nearly straight. We did not do it 
all at once — not any! Not until nearly 
sundown ! The men went all right, but 



the donkeys were new to the job, the 
saddlery not yet adjusted, and we igno- 
rant of how to meet this sort of trouble. 
We had to adjust packs every few min- 
utes, sometimes to repack. 

About noon some of the beasts lay 
down and refused to get up. We un- 
packed them and took off their saddles. 
They stretched out absolutely flat and 
looked moribund. We thought three of 
them dying. Not a bit of it! They 
merely wanted to rest and had great 
singleness of purpose. After half an 
hour they arose refreshed, but promptly 
lay down again when we suggested they 
carry something. So we drove them on 
light, and left their loads by the trail 
to be sent for later. We got in about 
sundown very much fagged out and 
sent porters back for the load's. They 
had had a hard day's march doing their 
own job, but started off most cheerfully. 

Some of them were out all night, but 
they did not grumble. I think every- 
body had enough travel that day. The 
donkeys fairly mobbed us, begging to 
be unpacked, sidling up insistently and 

As a consequence we made a short 
march next day around the base of an 
old volcano called Mt. Suswa. I went 
ahead of the caravan with Kongoni in 
order to get some meat, and had quite 
a conversation with him. We exchanged 
all the news of the last two years. Kon- 
goni was, as usual, very courtly. 

"Now," said he in conclusion, "when 
you were here before you shot well. 
See that you shoot well now." 

It is always amusing to listen to na- 
tive comments. Thus, this morning, 
while making up loads, I overheard 
M'ganga scolding a porter preparing my 
box for the march. 




"If you put that meat on that box, 
it will smell; and the bwana will say 
something; and he'll say it to me!" 

For two days now the travel was 
through a broken, Arizona-like country 
of outtes, cliffs, and wide, grassy sweeps. 
Against Mt. Suswa, we saw many steam 
blowholes like camp fire smokes. Foot- 
ing bad, being broken lava in tall grass, 
but the donkeys traveled well. Perhaps 
they are getting used to it — or perhaps 
we are ! They want to lie down in every 
sandy place ; and if they succeed we have 
to unpack and get them on their feet. 
Beginning to see game herds here and 
there, and it is pleasant to encounter 
them again. 

In the Land of Bad Water 

The water is in holes or rock tanks, 
and is green and very bad ; in fact rather 
awful. Sun fierce and strong. Cuning- 
hame and I crawled up the stream bed 
until we found a natural bower and 
there we ate and sat until the heat of the 
day had passed. One of the boys, out 
looking for better water, found a fresh 
lion lair, so we made the donkeys very 
secure by pitching all the tents in a cir- 
cle, and tethering the beasts in the mid- 

With our small outfit we had not 
planned to keep night fires; it is too 
much to ask of tired men ; but one of 
them, Sulimani by name, was once an 
askari, and he has taken it on himself. 
To this end he has deserted his tent 
mates and sleeps in the open by the fire. 
Periodically as the blaze dies down, he 
arises, buckles on a cartridge belt, seizes 
his gun, puts a stick on the fire, lays 
down the gun, takes off the cartridge 
belt, and stretches himself out to sleep. 
It is very amusing, but he must have 
his little routine. 

Our last march before reaching the 
N'gouramani, or Southern Guaso Ny- 
ero river was a long one, down one of 
the Arizona-like interminable scrub 
slopes, miles and miles wide. Beyond 
and above the bordering escarpment, we 
could see the Narossara mountains. 

The men as well as oursehe- knew 
this was to be a long, hard march, and 
they were all improvising songs the bur- 

den of which was " campi rnbale, campi 
in bale sana." — "Camp is far, camp is 
very far," to all sorts of variations of 
tune and words; but not of sentiment. 
We saw little game until within four 
or five miles of the river. Then appeared 
Robertsi, zebra, kongoni, one herd of 
oryx, ostrich, many warthog, and six 
giraffes. Also of the bird tribe brilliant 
bul-buls, hornbills, mori, and many 
grouse. Near the river were hundreds 
of parrots. 

Owing to the length of the march 
we were very glad to get to the river, but 
our joy was modified by the fact that it 
was in flood. It was here nearly a hun- 
dred yards wide, and. up to a man's chest, 
with a very swift current. A rotten old 
rope spanned it. By means of this wc 
crossed several men, who pulled over our 
own sound rope and strung it between 
two trees. I was to take charge of the 
farther end, and the moment I entered 
the water the men set up a weird minor 
chant to the effect: "The bwana is en- 
tering the water; the bwana is in the 
water; the bwana is nearly across; the 
bwana is out of the water." They 
tightened our new rope by song also: 

Headman (sings) Ka-lam-bay! 

Men Huh! 
Headman (sings) Ka-lam-ba! 

Men Huh! 
Headman Kalambay oo cha Ka la fa 

Men Hu-a-ay! 

The pull comes only at the very last 
word, but it is a good one. On the cable 
we strung a snatch block and a light 
line, and thus by stringing the loads to 
the block we pulled them across. The 
donkeys we left until the morrow. We 
were tired. A long march and the han- 
dling of seventy loads one at a time is 
some work. 

A night's rest put us in shape again to 
tackle the river. Leaving Cuninghame 
to rig the tackle, I took a three-hour 
jaunt down stream to get meat. Game 
was scarce in the little strip between the 
Escarpment and the river, but inside an 
hour I had my hartebeeste. Saw in all 
three waterbiick, fifteen kongoni, twelve 
zebra, one dik-dik and some impalla, 
and heard lion and hyena. Game birds, 
however, were in swarms. At every 

> > 

\ ^ 

Wk '■ '-SMI 

K/ .a&* -> s ~i3£\ 

>■.§ | 



step I flushed grouse, quail, guinea fowl, 
or pigeons. 

At nine o'clock we were ready for the 
serious business of the day. The method 
was as follows: Cuninghame and half 
a dozen huskies hitched a donkey to the 
end of a long rope, the other end c : 
which was held by myself, across the 
river. Then they lifted that reluctant 
donkey bodily and launched him in. I 
tried to guide him to the only possible 
landing-place fifty yards or so down 
stream. This was easy enough with the 
two mules — I merely held tight, let 
them swim, and the current swung them 
around. Not so donkeys! They swim 
very low, the least thing puts them 
under, they get panicky, they try to re- 
turn, they try to swim up stream; in 
short, they do everything they should 
not do. Result: about twenty-five per 
cent, went across by schedule, the rest 
had to be pulled, hauled, slacked off, 
grabbed, and hauled out bodily. Some 
just plain sank, and them we pulled in 
hand over hand as fast as we could haul 
under water, in the hope of getting them 
over before they drowned. We suc- 
ceeded, but some were pretty groggy. 
One came revolving like a spinner, over 
and over. 

Each animal required individual treat- 
ment at the line, and after two experi- 
ments with the best of the men, we de- 
cided I'd better stick to that job. Talk 
about your tuna fishing! I landed 
twenty big donkeys in two hours! 

Then we had lunch; and to us, out 
of the blue came the German trader, 
Vandeweyer's man, Dowdi, saying that 
his master's donkeys and loads of sugar 
had been camped twenty-two days wait- 
ing for the river to go down so they could 
cross, and would we cross them? Now, 
besides doing a good turn to Vandeweyer, 
we had counted on hiring some of these 
same donkeys for a short time to help 
us across the mountains with potio (pro- 
visions), which obviously we could not 
do if the beasts were on the wrong side 
of the river. Dowdi told us there were 
twenty-five, so we took on the job. The 
men crossed the loads by the cable and 
Cuninghame and I went to submarine 
donkey fishing again. Muscularly it 
was hard work, but actually it was 

rather fun, with a d'ash of uncertainty 
and no two alike. 

After we had worked an hour or so, 
more donkeys appeared. Instead of 
twenty-five, they proved to be forty- 
seven. Wily Dowdi had lured us on! 
We got quite expert. The moment the 
line was hauled back by means of a 
cord, Cuninghame clapped on the hitch, 
the donkey was unceremoniously dumped 
in, and I hauled him across any side up 
he happened to be. We had long since 
got over being tender of these donkeys' 
feelings! My men received him, yanked 
him to his feet, and left him blowing 
and dripping to take care of himself. 
We crossed twenty-one in the last hour! 
In all sixty-seven donkeys and two 

Remained only to reclaim our tackle, 
and we were ready for to-morrow's 

Up the Likipia Escarpment 

This we began good and early — 6:10 
to be exact — and the first step of it was 
the surmounting of the first bench of 
the Escarpment. It was here a cliff 
something over a thousand feet high ; 
formidable looking enough. However, 
we struck a Masai track and so went up 
rather easily. On the way we met four 
Masai runners, their spears bound in 
red indicating that they were the bearers 
of messages. At the top we journeyed 
through a steppe of thin scrub and grassy 
openings, with occasional little hills. 
Passed some Masai villages, with the 
fair ones seated outside polishing their 
ornaments while the naked children and 
the dogs played around them. Shortly 
after saw some Robertsi gazelles far 
down the valley to the left, and got lured 
away after them. In the course of my 
stalk I passed thirteen giraffes, very 
tame, that looked on me with mild curi- 
osity, and then made off in the loose- 
jointed Russian-toy manner of the spe- 

Got my meat after some difficulty, and 
took up the trail of the safari. This led 
us across the plains, through a low pass, 
and into a pocket in the hills just like 
some of the little valleys in our coast 
range. A dry wash ran through it, but 



some holes contained enough water for 
our purposes. The mountains round 
about were covered with chaparral. In 
this, rather to our surprise, we saw ze- 
bra. In fact later we found a great deal 
of plains game in the brush hills, driven 
from the plains by the increase of Masai 
cattle. Cuninghame thinks that the fu- 
ture of the plains game in British East 
Africa is just this, and not extermina- 
tion. If so, good-bye to the millionaire 
safari ! Too much work and skill re- 
quired! And, incidentally, the zebra, so 
conspicuous in the plains, is very hard to 
make out, even near to, in the brush. 
Protective coloration chaps, please take 
notice! Even the natives often overlook 
them at distances of less than one hun- 
dred yards! 

At three o'clock Cuninghame and I 
sauntered up into the hills to pick up 
men's meat, if possible, and to see what 
we could. A few Granti in an opening 
and two giraffes were about the size of 
it until late, when we made out a herd 
of zebra on the mountain opposite. I 
sneaked over, stalked within range, and 
missed through the bush. The herd 
clattered away up the side hill, dodging 
in and out the brush. I caught a glimpse 
of a darker object, and when the thing 
hesitated for a moment I took a quick 
sight and had the luck to bring it down 
dead. It proved to be a fine old bull 
wildebeeste that had strayed off with 
the zebra! Another plains animal in the 

Leaving the men to take in the meat, 
we went home along the very top of the 
ridge, enjoying the cool sunset and the 
view far abroad over the land. On this 
top we found impalla and kongoni in 
numbers! They, too, had deserted their 
beloved flats, in this instance for the 
very top of the ranges. This evening the 
camp, which has been rather silent of 
late, burst into many little fires and the 
chanting of songs. Meat once more was 

roasting and frying and broiling, and 
everybody was happy! 

Another day's march through a rocky, 
brushy pass and out over high rolling 
grass hills brought us to the Narossara 
River. Saw a great many zebra in the 
hills, but no other game until we had 
emerged into the open country. Then 
we came across occasional scattered herds 
of wildebeeste, and one small lot of 
eland. I made a long and careful 
stalk in good cover to leeward of one 
solitary wild'ebeeste, but he was very 
wary and was frightened away by the 
birds. However, by careful work I man- 
aged at last to get within two hundred 
and forty yards, when I hit him low in 
the shoulder. He ran some three hun- 
dred yards, but then went down. 

While we were preparing this trophy, 
M'ganga came with reports of eland 
in the next valley. Cuninghame and I 
at once set off and found our cow lying 
under a tree and guarded by several 
hundred zebra. To get within range we 
had to slip down the side hill, practically 
no cover, taking care to be seen neither 
by her nor the zebra. We took much 
time and got as near as we could. She 
was lying down, facing away from us, 
and to get her I had to hit about ten 
inches of spine. Rested up from the 
crawling and tried the shot. Had luck 
and hit the exact spot. 

Got in to Vandeweyer's trading boma 
about one o'clock, and camped in our old 
place. Vandeweyer has shaved off his 
beard. He still trades with the Masai, 
and tames chickens to sit on his shoulder. 
We had a talk, got some trade goods of 
him, and had him to dine. Cuninghame 
opened the one box of cigars in the out- 
fit. Vandeweyer's dog has a litter of 
puppies down an old warthog hole and 
refuses to bring them up. 

Note. — The steeper the hill the louder 
the porters sing. Whence do they get 
their breath? 

( To be continued) 

The next instalment of IN BACK OF BEYOND 
carries the party through some hard mountain climb- 
ing that barred them from their Promised Land. 



1 1 irs i k'A i i ii with Photographs 

A Game That Gives All the Fun of Flying without the Danger 

or the Cost 



WITH the price of aeroplanes and 
flying boats beyond the reach 
of ordinary beings, it is good 
to know that the wonderful sensation 
of shooting through the air and skim- 
ming the surface of the water may be 

enjoyed in another and much less ex- 
pensive manner by the use of the water- 
board or aquaplane. This sport is just 
coming into its own, and there follow a 
few details concerning its mechanics and 




The "plane" (five by two and one- 
half feet) can be made by putting side 
by side two or three ordinary boards and 
fastening them together by three cross- 
boards or cleats, which, of course, appear 
on the upper side when the plane is in 

through a kneeling to a standing posi- 
tion, feet wide apart near center of the 
plane, and hands grasping the "reins." 

The throttle is gradually thrown 
wide open, the boat attains top speed and 
he's off at over twenty miles an hour, 


use. Next bore a hole at each of the two 
forward corners and attach "reins" and 
towing rope as shown in accompanying 

With the board in position behind the 
boat, which is moving forward very 
slowly, the rider dives overboard, ap- 
proaches the board from the rear, and 
lies out upon it with a hand grasping it 
on either side near the front. Then, as 
the speed of the boat increases and the 
board begins to ride more nearly paral- 
lel with the surface of the water, he rises 

shooting along so fast that only the back 
edge of the board brushes the water and 
momentarily expecting to lose his bal- 
ance and be swept off the plane. These 
expectations are often fulfilled at first. 

Such was the initial experience of all 
of us who tried this "water-toboggan- 
ing" at Camp Mishe-Mokwa last sum- 

However, practice and increasing con- 
fidence soon made it possible to hold the 
position just described' almost indefinite- 
ly, precarious as it was, and experiments 

he's off, at over twenty miles an hour 

■' 1 . ' - 






by way of departure from the primary 
position were next in order. 

By pressing down with the left foot 
and pulling up with the right hand it 
was found possible to make the board 
skid to the right, and by reversing the 
pressure, i. e., pressing dow T n w T ith the 
right foot and pulling up on the left 
"rein," the board would slip rapidly 
toward the left. With this knowledge 
came the first "stunt" — an alternate 
right and left short skid, producing the 
rocking motion familiar to us through 
watching a slack-wire performer. Inas- 
much as this was a near "tip-over," 
w 7 ith, sometimes, only one corner of the 
board touching the water, it proved am- 
ply exciting, especially on "rough" days. 

Once the man at the wheel had a 

bright idea ; veering suddenly to the 
right, he threw his "trailer" across to 
the edge of the wake so that he slid 
down on the outside of the right stern 
wave and found himself traveling side- 
ways just as fast as he had gone for- 
ward a moment before (with the tow- 
ing rope now at almost right angles to 
the course of the boat.) This sensation 
was so entirely novel that he lost con- 
trol just long enough to let his front cor- 
ner get under and, for an instant, all one 
could see was spray. 

We picked him up and he tried it 
again w T ith more success; this time he 
found that by using the "sideways skid" 
pressure he could get back into the mid- 
dle of the wake and ride easily again. 
Broadside progress outside the wake 



proved to be so exhilarating that we soon 
learned to get there without the help of 
the boat's swerving, although, in rough 
water, we did not always get back. 

Constant practice gave automatic bal- 
ance, — almost. 

The next question was, "Can we stay 
on without the hands holding the 

The first affirmative answer was the 
"Spread Eagle" (knees bent, arms wide 
and "reins" held in teeth). Picturesque, 
but difficult! 

Soon the "reins" were dropped* alto- 
gether, and then, with nothing to hold 
to and a constantly shifting and uncer- 
tain base upon which to stand, it became 
a pure case of nerve and balance. 

To be a good swimmer is necessary 
for both fun and safety if one is to ride 
on the water-board. Another requisite 
is full and flexible control of the motor- 
boat by the man at the wheel, who must 
see to it that the propeller is not revolv- 
ing when taking aboard a swimmer. 

In the event of a cramp, or other 
emergency, it is well to have on board 
the boat several life-preserving pillows, 
— I say pillows advisedly, since they can 
be thrown or scaled more accurately and 
for a longer distance than the other 
more conventional forms. 

With these cautions strictly heeded, 
the sport of aquaplaning at once becomes 
as thoroughly safe as it is wonderfully 
exciting, exhilarating and healthful. 




Drawing by Walter King Stone and Pi-iillipps Ward 

IT is hard to say when a country boy begins his first hunting. Living close 
to nature, the instinct to hunt, that most primitive of all instincts, allied 
directly, of course, with the sensation of hunger (though we to-day can 
realize it only with our brains), manifests itself in his very early years. The 
country boy often carries a gun when the weight of it bows him, and the kick 
of it is prodigious. I can remember my old muzzle loader laying me flat 
on my back. But earlier than guns, he carries less deadly weapons, and 
chief among them are — or used to be — slings. 

What has become of those old slings? I rarely see them any more, and 
I never hear our boys exclaiming when on a walk through the woods, as we 
used to exclaim, "Oh, there's a dandy crotch!'' Then out would come a 
knife, and the perfect Y was severed from the sapling. There was a mar- 
velous shop, kept by a no less marvelous old maid with a deep bass voice, 
where we purchased slates, marbles, toy soldiers and sling elastic. This elastic 
was half an inch wide, thick, gray in color, and possessed a powerful snap. 

Two strips of this elastic, a foot or more in length, were lashed to the 
ends of the crotch, and a leather pad, cut from an old shoe, was made fast 
to hold the missile — often David's missile, a brook pebble, often a round lead 
bullet made in grandfather's bullet mould, less often buckshot bought by the 
pound. Such a sling was not to be despised. It would throw a bullet two 
or three hundred yards, and kill a bird, a frog, or a telegraph wire insulator, 
with ease. Insulators were a breed of game we hunted on our way to school. 
The more serious work was done on Saturdays "up at Duck" — which meant 
Duck Pond, where the bull paddies basked. 

You know, of course, that first warm evening of spring when your ear 
is suddenly serenaded by the shrill phee, phee, phee of the Pickering frogs! 
That was a sign that the hunting season had begun. At the first opportunity 
we were at Duck Pond, the lower end of our sling crotches grasped firmly 
in one hand, the leather holding the missile pinched firmly between the thumb 
and forefinger of the other, our eager eyes fixed on the shining rocks and the 
weeds inshore. "Paddy got drunk," the bullfrogs were supposed to say. 
"Paddy got drunk" would suddenly come like a taunt from the waters of the 
pond. A green head, two bulging eyes — and then the snap of elastic and the 
splash of water about the poor fellow. Sometimes he disappeared with a 
startled glug; sometimes he floated out, white belly upturned, his hind legs 
spasmodically twitching, to be drawn in with a pole in triumph. 

There was legend that frogs' legs were good to eat, and I seem to remem- 
ber at least one attempt to test the truth of it. We built a fire, and in a frying 
pan purloined by Frank Nicholls we set several legs to sizzling. But I have no 
recollection that the experiment was repeated. Perhaps the art of cooking them 
is French. At any rate, I am sure we did not hunt the bull paddies primarily 
for food. We were small boys with destructive slings, and they were simply 
available live things to be fired at. Some of us get over such instincts in after 
years. Others don't. There remains much of the boy in every hunter. 









Photographs by John T. McCutcheon 

In Which the White Men Take to the Hills and Trail Their Deer 

Indian Fashion 

FTER breakfast, Morgan 
and ' ' G i b b y ' ' and 
"Grindy" spent two 
hours in a housewifely 
rearrangement of their 
sleeping places, stretch- 
ing a tarp over their cots against the 
rain (which did not come). To as- 
suage our keen disappointment, "Monty" 
and the Preacher Man proposed to lead 
McCutcheon, Brice and me to the top 
of a mountain three or four miles away, 
to get a view of the country. But I 
induced "Grindy" to come with me 
quail shooting instead; we went up the 
wash from our camp. 

The re were plenty of quail — the top- 


knotted mountain variety that can run 
faster than you can walk, that can hide 
quicker than a mouse, and 1 are harder to 
kill than anything I have ever tried to 
shoot. Hunting them turned out to be 
a series of dashes down precipitous, 
rocky slopes and painful, slow toiling up 
again. I said to myself that if the deer 
hunters had a harder time following 
the tracks of the bucks than I had in 
chasing those agile and loud-voiced 
quail, it was truly no game for a tender- 

"Grindy" and I parted soon after we 
struck the first bunch of quail, and after 
a while I ceased' to hear him shooting. 
But I kept on, toiling up the slopes of 




the high hills, kicking an occasional rab- 
bit out of the cactus, scrambling down 
slopes so steep that I hated to look to 
the bottom. I forgot that noon had 
come and gone; and the sun was getting 
pretty close to the hills in the west be- 
fore I finally dropped into the wash 
which led back to camp. 

I had bagged seven quail and two rab- 


bits; I was sore and tired; and I found 
out that "Grindy" had been back in 
camp for hours. Some of the deer hunt- 
ers had returned (the day's score at that 
hour was three), and they watched me 
empty my hunting coat pockets with a 
sort of parental tolerance. Then the 
Preacher Man, recalling his boyhood 
hunting days on an Illinois farm, set 
to work enthusiastically to clean and 
cook the quails and rabbits. At supper, 
while the Indians broiled their venison 
and tore their thin tortilla bread with 
their fine white teeth, we feasted on 
what I had bagged. And it all seemed 

worth while! We ought to have been 
humiliated over being left behind to 
guard camp, but we weren't. We were 
having the time of our lives! 

Now the fifth day of our hunt was 
nearly like the fourth; Hayes and the 
Preacher Man did the quail hunting in 
the morning, and Morgan and "Gibby" 
in the afternoon, while "Monty," Mc- 
Cutcheon, Brice and I went away into 
the hills carrying a desperate hope of 
finding a deer. Instead of a gun. 
"Monty" carried a pair of field glasses. 

The four of us climbed for a mile up 
the sloping backbone of a rock-strewn 
mountain before "Monty," resting while 
he mopped his dripping brow, outlined 
our hunting plan. Old Mother Hub- 
bard proposing to start a game of ring- 
around-a-rosy would have seemed more 
congruous to us at that moment. 
"Monty" certainly doesn't seem to be 
built for chasing deer over the hills of 

But we followed, soberly and prompt- 
ly, the directions he gave; Brice and I 
kept on up the backbone of the moun- 
tain, while McCutcheon and "Monty" 
swung away to the left, along its flank. 
All of us were to meet in a "saddle" 
of the ridge — then proceed farther ac- 
cording to developments. 

Brice and I arrived first; and as we 
stood on the wind'-swept ridge waiting 
for McCutcheon and our field general, 
we searched with our eyes the splendid 
canyon below us, to our right, and the 
mountain which rose beyond it. My eye 
caught a ribbon of white sand at the 
canyon's bottom, close to some cotton- 
woods, and just as I was about to call 
Brice's attention to it, I saw three four- 
footed animals cross it, single file. I 
grew excited and tried unsuccessfully to 
point them out to Brice before they were 
lost to sight. I felt sure they were deer. 

When "Monty" arrived, we trained 
the field glasses on the canyon's bottom, 
but my deer had long since passed out 
of sight. The thing to do, said 
"Monty," was to spread out and go 
after them. He thought that they must 
have come down to a water hole, and he 
believed that they would climb up the 
mountain sides after they had drunk. 

To McCutcheon, "Monty" assigned 



the job of patrolling the top of the rocky 
ridge on which we stood. Brice was 
to go half way to the bottom of the 
canyon with us, and then scout along in 
the direction I saw the deer taking. 
"Monty" and I would go down to the 
water hole, pick up the tracks, and give 
a high-class imitation of Apaches trail- 
ing deer. 

We followed a wash to the bottom of 
the canyon — a rock-lined and precipitous 
spout down which, after a heavy rain, 
you could picture a volume of water al- 
most literally falling the six or seven 
thousand feet to the racing flood below. 
Here and there, as we slid and rolled 
and scrambled, we came upon sheer prec- 
ipices from ten to thirty feet in height ; 
and 1 around these "Monty" picked the 
way. Brice we left on a sort of plateau. 
Eager to pick up the trail, I plowed 
on ahead, clambered across a half acre 
of huge granite boulders, and came out 
on the ribbon of white sand. 








And across the 
plain cattle trail ! 

"Monty" came up to where I stood, 
legs shaking from the hurried climb," and 
mopped his face. I pointed hopefully 
to the tracks of some calves, but 
"Monty" merely said: 

"Nothin' doin' — let's take a look up 
there." He pointed up the mountain- 
side, directly at a towering mass of 
rocks and cat's claw bushes Brice and 
I had agreed was inaccessible. 

"The hunters nearly all went over on 
the other side of that mountain this 
morning," said "Monty," "and they 
may run a deer over to this side. We'll 
work our way up toward the top, and 
then along the side." 

"All right," I agreed meekly, and 
waited for "Monty" to pick the way. 
He is heavy and short, but there is a 
wonderful power stored 1 in his stocky 
frame; we climbed, turning and twisting 
to get around those forbidding walls of 



rock, pulling ourselves up with the aid 
of cat's claw bushes, the spiked branches 
of scrub palo verdes, and crumbling pro- 
jections of soft, red rocks. We crossed 
a dry water course, gashing the moun- 
tainside, to get upon a rounded swell 
where the grass grew thick and high; 
and when we got there found that we 
must inch along its side with infinite 
care to keep from sliding to a painful 
death among the rocks we had left. 

"So this is the way the Apaches hunt 
deer!" I gasped, lodging my rifle against 
the first conveniently projecting rock I 
had found in half an hour, and looking 
back at "Monty" who was holding to a 
bunch of grass with one hand and mop- 
ping his face with the other. 

"We get around this knob," he said 
placidly, "and we'll have a fine view of 
the whole mountain." 

"All right," I agreed, and began to 
struggle on. After a year or more of 
that heart-breaking sliding and climbing, 
I came out on a cattle trail. 

"Well, I'll be darned!" I said. I had 
a picture of old bossy cows leading their 
young calves up and down this moun- 
tainside i they came and went from 
grass to water, and I wondered how it 
was that the cattlemen had got a suc- 
cessful cross between the white-faced 

Durham and the Rocky Mountain goat. 
None other, I felt sure, could survive 
among those mountains. 

"Look! There's one of the boys," 
said "Monty." Far up, and ahead of us, 
standing clear against the sky on the 
top of the mountain, was an Indian. 
"Monty" waved his hat, and the Indian 
waved his gun. We sat down to wait. 

There is a satisfaction in merely sit- 
ting d'own that transcends every other 
satisfaction in the w T orld. I know it 
positively. When every fiber of your 
body is sore and stretched, when your 
eyes are dimmed with the sweat of a 
toiling, persistent effort, when your 
breath comes in short, inadequate gasps, 
and your legs are trembling, you sit 
down without the least reluctance. 

" 'Monty'," I observed weakly, "if I 
ever get away from here and back to 
camp, I swear that I shall never make 
another threatening move against the 
deer of Arizona." 

"We'll take it easy for a little while," 
said "Monty". He uncased his field 
glasses to search the opposite mountain- 
side for Brice, and then began to scan 
the slope on our sid'e for the deer the 
hunters might have run over toward us. 

Ten minutes passed, and then some 
miracle of restoration swept over me. I 


«*i .**"\ 

^^■r~. . ;^ > 


felt fresh and buoyant, my eyes took in 
the rocks and the yawning canyon with 
delight — the reflection that I had come 
over them successfully elated me. My 
breath was coming regularly, and I had 
stopped thinking about Hayes's unfor- 
tunate experience when he strained his 
heart climbing. 

For another half mile we climbed, 
quarteringly, crossing other cattle trails ; 
and then we heard shots. 

''Wait here — the deer may come right 
over to us," said "Monty," dropping 
behind a clump of prickly pears. And 
for a quarter of an hour we waited. 
Then we moved on again, climbing until 
we were able to look over the top of 
the ridge on which we had left Mc- 
Cutcheon and on across the billowing 
ridges clear to the high swells which 
rose fifty miles beyond the Verde. 

There were more shots, and we 
dropped to earth again to wait. And 
this time, as we waited, I realized that 
I was really tired. How many miles 
back to camp it was and how we were 
to get down from that mountainside and 
across that other rock-studded ridge I 
did not know. I looked at my watch to 
find that it was nearly one o'clock. 
Breakfast seemed a long way past, and 
the next meal a longer distance in the 

' 'Monty'," I ventured, "how w T ould 
you like a thick steak, rare, and a plate 
of French fried potatoes just now?" 

"Well, I guess we might as well get 
back to camp," said "Monty," unemo- 
tionally. So we followed a cattle trail 
down to a beautifully clear water hole 
in the bottom of the canyon. We 
stopped down there to drink copiously 
before tackling the climb we thought 
would bring us to the top of the ridge 
on which we had left McCutcheon. 

When we had climbed up nearly to 
where we had left Brice, and failed to 
find him, there came riding towaid us 
John Black and Richard Dickens — Rich- 
ard mounted behind John. They were 
on their way back to camp ; and Richard 
dismounted to pilot us. All thought of 
Brice and McCutcheon left us when 
Richard began to lead us around that 
ridge, over the shale rock which scat- 
tered like loose snow underfoot, across 
cliff-faces where the trail pinched out 
and left onlv casual sloping footholds. 

And when we had rounded that ridge, 
lo, there was another! But Richard let 
us rest a few minutes before we tackled 
that; and he also took my gun to carry. 

About four o'clock, we came in sight 
of the camp — half an hour later I was 
posing beside one of the pools as "Octo- 
ber Morn." "Gibby" saw me and 






rushed for his camera — he swears that 
he has had that picture made into a 
lantern slide, and that he came near 
throwing it on the screen at a lecture 
he delivered before a woman's club. 
Anyway, that was the most satisfying 
bath I have ever taken. 

And the broiled venison, the slice of 
thick bread, the bacon and quail, the 
raw onion, the hunk of yellow cheese, 
the half can of peaches, and the tin 
cup of black coffee which followed the 
batch — Shucks! 

I felt insolently fit. I told "Monty" 
that I was going out the next morning 
with some of the Apache hunters if I 
had to get up at midnight in order to 
trail them. McCutcheon and Brice, 
who had beaten us to camp by half an 
hour (they, too, had had their hard fight 
with the rocks and canyons), declared 
that they would go also. McCutcheon 
and I went off to shoot quail until it 
was too dark to see. 

There is a sense of elation, of trium- 

phant joy, of a wonderful uplift of spirit 
following a day of effort like that, when 
you know that you have stood it like a 
man, when neither tobacco nor the usual 
after-supper session of joshing seems 
worth while, when the reaction which 
comes throws you on your blankets dead 
asleep, when after two hours of unstir- 
ring slumber you wake to straighten 
your legs and pull the blankets over you, 
when your blood runs like wine through 
your veins when tired muscles seem to 
recover their spring almost before you 
give them a chance to relax. 

You know that you are not yet the 
city's victim ! You know what utter 
content must be the portion of those 
Indian hunters who come trudging in 
as the dusk creeps down the canyon, 
fling off their heavy burdens of deer 
meat, wash their hands, and squat silent- 
ly beside the fire to eat and drink. You 
hear them talking about the day's hunt 
as they roll cigarettes, and you wish 
that you could understand their clear- 
cut, desultory sentences. 

"You fellows ought to have been with 
us!" It was Brice (who later confessed 
that his highest ambition is to write a 
book) that addressed this illuminating 
remark to the five who had stayed in 
camp or scouted over the nearby hills 
for quail. And, somehow, Brice seemed 
to have said all there was to say, so 
inarticulate had we become. No words 
then at our command could express what 
we felt, deep down, as the stars came 
out. But Brice, McCutcheon and I were 
positive that we wanted to go out with 
the Indians next morning. So "Monty" 
spoke to Charley Dickens about it that 

As soon as it was light enough to see, 
next morning, our horses were rounded 
in from the hills, and the three of 
us saddled and started after the three 
Indians who were to be our tutors. 
George Dickens led off, Charley Dick- 
ens (who had caught up the excellent 
brown mule) came next, and I shoved 
my roan pony in behind Charley. Be- 
hind me rode Jose, and then McCutch- 
eon and Brice. 

Up the steep hillside spurred George 
Dickens — where the grade was less than 
twenty per cent, George urged his horse 



into a fox-trot. Early morning is the 
best time to get out after deer. 

About a mile from the camp we 
came to a hill so steep that I did not 
believe it possible for a horse to carry 
a rider down ; yet George Dickens took 
it without slackening the fast walk he 
had forced his horse into; and Charley 
kept close at his heels. 

"Well, here goes!" I muttered, as I 
forced my little roan down the faint 
trail. He groaned and slid, and we 
were safely down ; he began to paw his 
way up the steep bank on the other side, 
and then I dismounted. But I hustled 
along, breathing gaspingly; also, when 
I got to the normal hillside going, I 
scrambled aboard and whipped my roan 
forward. Jose had passed me and was 
trotting just behind Charley Dickens. 
I looked back to see that McCutcheon 
and Brice had dismounted to lead down 
the hill. I waved to them to come on 
before I passed out of their sight over 
another hill. 

y&rlK- •* >*- : *p&5*l 


*&* \ 





kf •'■ 




The three Indians led me over two 
more rocky hills, and I came up to them 
as they were dismounting where the 
backbone of a long ridge swayed and 
broadened. Here the ground was soft 
and free from stones. Two or three 
stunted trees grew out of this oasis — 
palo verdes, whose green bark and 
strong spikes suggested cactus — and un- 
der these there were likely to be found 
deer signs. 

George Dickens was scarcely off his 
horse before he called, in a low-pitched 
tone, to Charley, and pointed to tracks. 
Tying their horses and drawing their 
guns hastily out of their saddle scab- 
bards, the Indians tumbled down the 
hillside in the direction the deer had 

I came plunging forward, and ranged 
alongside Charley, with excitement and 
questions bulging out all over. Charley 
took time to whisper: 

"Three — three of them!" And 
there w r as a sort of singing note in his 



voice, a rapid filming and unveiling of 
the jet black of his eyes. He flashed 
three outspread fingers toward me to 
make sure that I understood that we 
had by a fortunate chance come upon the 
tracks of three deer. 

"All bucks— big fellows!" added 
Charley, and as I slid noisily down over 
some loose stones and came to a sudden 
stop in the granite bottom of a wash, 
Charley held up a hand; he admonished 
me gently: 

"You walk easy — make no noise!" 

Up the steep hillside which seemed 
to lean toward us, he sprang with the 
silent grace of a cat. My heart was 
pounding with excitement and the sud- 
den effort, as I followed ; and it may 
be that I actually did not make as much 
noise as I had in coming down the hill. 

George and Jose were leading, stoop- 
ing swiftly now and then to verify their 
guess that the three deer were following 
a twisting, easy way (not easy, either, 
but the least difficult) up the steep slope. 
At the top, they came to a stop, and 
Charley joined them in rapid recon- 
naissance. In a minute they were plung- 
ing back down the hill to the bottom of 
the wash we had just crossed. 

On the Trail in Earnest 

Down there, a careful study of the 
ground was made ; and then the three 
Indians came together for a whispered 
conference. At the end, George and 
Jose set off toward the north, while 
Charley motioned me to follow him; 
and as we climbed the steep slope again, 
Charley took time to explain : 

"Two go off that way" — he pointed 
to where George and Jose were speed- 
ing across another hill — "and one go 
this way; we follow him." 

So Charley Dickens and I set out on 
the track of one big buck, with the 
beating hearts and the shining eyes of 
two schoolboys on the way to the swim- 
ming hole for the first time in early 
summer. I had never in my life shot at 
a deer; Charley has tracked down and 
killed scores — yet I believe that he was 
quite as excited over the prospect of 
coming upon this one as I could possibly 

"He's fresh track!" Charley kept re- 
peating, turning now and then to make 
sure that I was keeping close up. 

We came to a sloping expanse of bare 
rock, where the tracks of the buck were 
lost. Charley followed the course he 
thought the deer must have taken, but 
when we came to the other side, where 
there was dirt enough to show a track, 
it was not to be found. Charley shook 
his head impatiently, then started to 
climb among the loose rocks and cactus. 
But no track was there, so he came 
racing down to scout over the lower 
ground. And all the time I followed 
as close at his heels as I could. 

Far down went Charley, but did not 
find the tracks. Up again, then, and 
up and up, until I thought that we must 
be going straight to the top of a tower- 
ing peak which was throwing its shadow 
across the hills we had crossed. At last 
Charley turned toward me with a smile 
and pointed a lean brown finger; I came 
up panting, and stooped to note the 
faint, delicate outline of a deer's foot. 

For a time the tracks followed a level 
cow-trail, and I was given a chance in 
some measure to recover my breath. A 
breathing spell was granted me, too, 
every time Charley crept, bent low, to 
the top of a ridge. I followed his ex- 
ample, stepping slowly and softly until 
we had scanned all of the country opened 
up to view by topping the ridge. 

We had followed the trail for per- 
haps an hour, when we were introduced 
to a series of meanderings; the tracks 
led us far down toward where the plung- 
ing dry washes ran into a main wash, 
and then took us up and up to the good 
grazing near the top of the high peak. 

Charley Dickens is about one inch 
over six feet; I should say that he has 
a twenty-six inch waist, and that he 
weighs about 155 pounds. He was born 
among the hills, and he moves among 
the rocks, over whatever grade he 
meets, with the ease and thoughtless 
sureness of a mountain creature. Keep- 
ing alongside of him, hour after hour, 
I found was a different matter from 
trailing "Monty". I needed more 
breath than I seemed to have with me 
that day. 

But fate was kind — just as I decided 



that I would quietly drop behind some 
sheltering palo verde and go back to 
camp when I had recovered my wind, 
Charley would lose the tracks. When- 
ever that happened I stopped dead, try- 
ing to make Charley believe that I was 
astonished at the twistings of the deer's 
trail. And sometimes, before Charley 
had picked up the tracks again, I would 
be so far recovered that I could make a 
bluff at searching the ground for signs. 

Then (I think that it must have been 
in the third hour of our pursuit) I actu- 
ally found the trail! I called Charley 
by a hissing whisper and a wave of my 
hand. Thereafter, each time we lost 
the dim tracks, Charley would send me 
one way to search while he went the 
other. To me that was the highest com- 
pliment I could have been paid ; I ex- 
ulted, though it cut out my resting per- 
iods. Thereafter when I set out to ex- 
amine my allotted territory — breath 
whistling from my lungs and sweat all 
but blinding me — I prayed to the gods 
of luck to help me find the tracks if 
they happened to be on my side. 

I made a good record — only once did 
Charley come into the territory I had 
scouted over and pick up the tracks after 
I had missed them. 

So we went, hour after hour, with 
just enough time for creeping to the 
tops of ridges and reconnoitering the 
valleys to save for me a remnant of 
breath. The shadow of the tall peak 
became short, and was lost altogether. 
We had left our horses at a quarter to 
seven o'clock, and it was now a quarter 
to twelve. 

We were getting higher and higher 
all the time, following what seemed to 
be a perfectly random trail. Every now 
and then Charley's brown finger would 
jab one of the delicate outlines of the 
deer's foot, and he would whisper ex- 

"He's very fresh — maybe, over that 
hill!" Then we would creep, rifles 
snuggled close under our arms, to the 
top of another ridge, to stand motion- 
less while we scanned the rock fields 
mounting ahead of us. 

It was nearly one o'clock; we had 
climbed almost uninterruptedly for half 
an hour; the blood was pounding, mon- 

strous drum-beats, in my head ; I had 
loosened my woolen shirt to the last but- 
ton and rolled its sleeves back as far as 
they would go; I was sweating so that 
my eyes were bathed by the acrid flow; 
every muscle in my body was shrieking 
for release from strain; and I was think- 
ing with envy of the good fortune of 
McCutcheon and Brice in being left be- 
hind before the trailing began. Then 
we lost the tracks. 

Charley, choosing the most likely 
ground, swung to the left and waved me 
toward the right. I stole a few seconds 
for breathing before I began my search. 
My trembling legs took me very slowly 
up and across the rocks — I was hoping 
that we would have to search a long time 
before we came upon the tracks. 

I looked around for Charley, after a 
minute. He had gone over a ridge and 
was out of my sight. Right there I 
was tempted to lie down flat on my back 
and bid good-by to the chance of ever 
seeing a deer ; but some obstinate spirit 
of protest against giving up urged me on. 
I stumbled ahead, to cut the trail of 
the deer twenty feet behind Charley, 
who was climbing along the side of the 
ridge which led straight up to the top 
of the high peak. 

The Game in Sight 

Then, suddenly, I saw Charley drop 
to one knee, his rifle came up to his 
shoulder with a steady, thrilling swift- 
ness; the whining crack punctured the 
silence of the hills; and I heard the 
rattle of hoofs against stones three hun- 
dred yards ahead and above us. 

Full into my view, broadside on, 
scrambled the big buck. Mine was the 
second shot — Heaven knows where the 
bullet went, for I could no more fix 
the bead of my rifle sight on that gray, 
antlered creature mounting toward 
where the sun was rimming the top of 
the high peak than I could have stopped 
to recite Scott's poem. 

Turn and turn, as fast as we could 
throw the loads into our guns, Charley 
and I fired, the crack and echo of the 
shots mingling in a kind of maddening 
roar of sound. My last bullet (Charley 
told me later) struck just behind the 



deer as he went across the ridge square 
into the sun. 

As the deer disappeared, I began to 
shove more cartridges into the maga- 
zine of my rifle, running to speak to 
Charley in a voice choked with excite- 

"I think," said Charley, shoving his 
broad hat back and reloading swiftly, 
"my first shot hit him here." He jabbed 
the extended fingers of his left hand 
against his hip. And when he had fin- 
ished reloading, "Come on, I think we 
get him now!" 

Then up toward the top of the ridge, 
toward the peeping sun, toward the spot 
where the glorious buck had topped the 
rocks, began* to run that lank Apache! 
He ran — actually — up a mountainside 
which seemed' always rearing backward 
as if to hit us in the face, so steep it 

And I tried, gaspingly, despairingly, 
to follow. Within fifty yards, I found 
myself stopped dead, with the last atom 
of breath gone and with every muscle 
balked. I tried pulling myself up by 
grabbing the cruel cat's claw bushes, in- 
different for the moment to their 
scratches; and for a few more yards I 
struggled on in Charley's wake. 

I stopped, breathed with my mouth 
wide open a few times, then tried' step- 
ping along the hillside, on the level. 
That was all right — I found that I 
could move in that way. After that, 
I climbed again — for perhaps twenty 
feet — rested for a moment, then tried 
the level going. All the time Charley 
was steaming on, getting farther and 
farther away from me. Just before he 
came to the spot where the deer had 
stood when he fired first, Charley looked 
back and with a beckoning wave of his 
hand, directed 1 me to circle the ridge over 
which the deer had disappeared. 

"All right!" I tried to shout, but I 
found that I couldn't spare the breath 
for the words. So, as fast as I could go 
over the stones, I began to swing around 
the hill toward the left, picking out the 
level way with the sure instinct of the 
Utterly tired climber. 

Presently, to my amazement, I found 
myself able to run. Yesterday's miracle 
of rejuvenation was being outdone to- 

day! I know that I shall never have a 
moment of more unadulterated joy than 
the one in which I discovered that I 
could run' along that steep mountainside. 
I had dug deep down to at least a third 
reservoir of physical stamina, and 

Charley appeared on the top of the 
ridge, far above and to the right. He 
waved to me violently, and I understood 
that the deer had' turned in my direction 
and headed for the bottom of a dry wash 
which yawned almost canyon-like in size 
and depth at my left. 

A few steps farther along, I came 
upon the trail of the deer — a splash of 
blood on a rock, tracks which went un- 

Charley was coming down the hill 
with the speed of a young avalanche — 
I resolved that he should not beat me 
to the bottom of that wash, anyway, 
and I began to plunge ahead recklessly. 
Fortunately there was a long "slide" of 
loose stones for me to plunge down upon 
— they carried me twenty feet at a 
leap, giving way before the violent shock 
of my impact instead of sending me roll- 

Charley was still fifty yards or more 
behind me, and I was within thirty 
yards of the bottom of the hill, 
when straight ahead I got the flash of 
tossing horns as the wounded buck be- 
gan to hobble quarteringly up the op- 
posite slope. He was not forty yards 
away, he was going slowly, broadside on ; 
the quiet assurance that, he was our 
meat helped to steady my gun as I 
turned it upon him. 

Bringing Ho?ne the Bacon 

My shot beat Charley's — his kicked 
up a spatter of dirt just over the shoulder 
of the deer which had plunged and 
slumped when my bullet struck him. 
Before he half tumbled and half slid to 
the bottom of the granite-lined channel 
of the wash, the velvet smoothness of 
his side was stained by blood. Down 
in the bottom of the wash, the buck 
struggled feebly, and Charley, rushing 
down beside me, was about to fire again 
when I begged him not to spoil the skin 
with another bullet. 

I assume that there is a hunters' law 



which disputes my title to that deer ; 
but I am no hunter, and I know that 
I fell to and helped Charley skin and 
pack it over the hills to the horses with 
all the delight of a new owner. I have 
the horns over my desk now, and I look 
upon them as my own trophy, even 
though I know that except for Charley 
I should never even have seen the deer. 
So indifferent to some details do we be- 
come, and so tenacious of others — I have 
actually found myself wondering at 
times whether Charley might not have 
been mistaken in thinking that his first 
bullet crippled the deer, and whether 
it might not have been that last shot of 
mine (as the deer disappeared over the 
ridge into the sun) which set him on 
three legs and made him at last our 

No, he was not all my deer; but do 
you imagine that I admitted it when, 
liberally stained with blood, I rode into 
camp with Charley to pose while Mc- 
Cutcheon and "Gibby" trained their 
cameras upon me! After I had changed 
my shirt and eaten a thick venison steak ; 
after the weariness had gone from my 
body, "Grindy" (who had made a rec- 
ord shooting quail that morning, and 
wanted to go out again) asked me to 
go up on the hills with him and chase 
a big bunch of quail he had located. 
Morgan saved me from refusing. 

"You give me a pain, 'Grindy'!" he 
broke in scornfully. "Let McCutcheon 
take his own gun" (a beautiful 20- 
gauge quail gun which all of us except 
its owner had been using) "and go with 
you. Why, 'Tsan-usdi' is a deer hun- 


George Morgan's sarcasms do not 
wound — they are delivered with such a 
wide-eyed stare and such an apologetic 
smile as take out the sting. This one 
actually soothed. I waved my hand 
deprecatingly, and in a few minutes 
"Grindy" and McCutcheon were on the 
way to the hillside where the quail 
called defiantly. Then George wanted 
to know the truth about the killing of 
the deer. Charley assumed an air of 
having forgotten altogether just how the 
deer did meet his end, and nodded his 
head loyally whenever I asked him to 
confirm a statement. Finally, I took out 
of my pocket the flattened bullet Charley 
had found under the skin — the one 
which had tumbled him into the bed of 
wash. I put it into George's hand and 
asked him to verify my statement that 
it fitted my gun. 

"Now, are you satisfied?" I de- 
manded ; and I think he was almost per- 
suaded. Anyway, when Hayes, "Gib- 
by," "Grindy," and Brice began to ques- 
tion my right to the title of deer-slayer, 
George came to my assistance. 

' 'Tsan-usdi'," he asserted (using with 
delicious unction the Indian name my 
Cherokee relatives gave me when I was 
a small boy, and which I had revealed 
to him in an unguarded moment) 
"killed that deer! He has established 
his claim to my satisfaction; and as his 
counsel I ask the court to put a stop 
to this persistent heckling by counsel for 
the prosecution." Then "Monty" and 
the Preacher Man, constituting them- 
selves a court of inquiry, ordered all pro- 
ceedings stopped. With Morgan's help, 
I won my point — the deer was mine. 

(The End.) 

The international preliminaries in lawn tennis for 
the Davis Cup begin in July. Therefore, read 
E. B. Dewhurst's article in June OUTING on THE 



Arranged by Edward L. Fox 


' I V HE development of baseball, as Mr. Griffith shows, has been 
-*- marked by two broad tendencies. On the playing side, most, 
if not all, of the changes have been directed to the speeding up 
of the game and the sharpening of the attack. From the stand- 
point of managers and owners there has gone on at the same time 
a steady movement toward making the game more stable and profit- 
able commercially. What are the prime changes from year to 
year that throw these tendencies into bold relief? Mr. Griffith 
answers this question in the article which follows. 

F course a subject like 
baseball is possible of di- 
vision in many ways, and 
I am not positive that I 
have located its milesones 
properly. Nevertheless, I 
prefer to divide baseball into two parts. 
I like to think of what happened before 
the formation of the American League 
in 1901 and what happened after that 
date down to the present day. 

Such a division will do nicely if we 
are only considering the vital things in 
the moral development of the game. By 
that I mean the attitudes of crowds, 
players, and club owners toward their 
profession. In this respect the changes 
since 1901 are remarkable. But to locate 
other milestones, we must use certain 
points of interest, which date the or- 
ganization of the American League. I 
have read not a few histories of baseball. 
To trace the development of the com- 
mercialism of baseball, however, is dif- 
ferent from simple history. This com- 
'mercial development I shall consider 
later. Also, I shall tell what I know of 
the scientific development of the game, 
of the changes in the style of play, in 


fact everything I can remember that 
has not to do with dollars and cents. 

The baseball of to-day is approaching 
pretty close to the ideal. The reason for 
this is that everybody concerned in it 
has developed a" sense of sportsmanship 
utterly lacking in the past. Despite its 
professionalism I have noticed a clearly 
defined spirit of "the game, for the 
game's sake." I have seen this mani- 
fested not only in players, but in own- 
ers, umpires and fans. But more of this 

I began in baseball, professionally that 
is, around the end of the eighties. Be- 
fore that, a number of important changes 
in the technique of the game had oc- 
curred. Let us consider them chro- 
nologically. In 1863, the "Call Ball" 
rule was adopted. That shortened the 
playing time of a game. Six years later 
a catcher used a glove for the first time. 
He was Allison, of the Cincinnati Reds. 
Three years later there came the "bunt," 
that offensive play which is the basis for 
much of our modern attacking strategy. 
I believe that a man named Pearce, of 
the Brooklyn Atlantics, is credited with 
the discovery of the play. 



Then in 1879 came the first catcher's 
mask used by John Twyng, of Harvard, 
and that further quickened the game. 
Everything was tending to speed up base- 
ball. In 1882 the ball that rolled foul 
was called foul. In 1884 overhand 
pitching was officially allowed. You see 
the game was becoming more difficult. 
The opportunities for doing things suc- 
cessfully were being cut down. That 
meant that games were constantly being 
played quicker. The whole trend was 
for speed, more speed. 

That was natural. It is trite to say 
it, but America has been striving for 
speed in everything. This includes base- 
ball. The smart player of to-day is much 
faster than his rival of twenty years 
ago. I say twenty, not twenty-five, for 
it was in 1894 that modern baseball be- 

All teams to-day are developed along 
the lines of speed. I know that is the 
system I use at Washington. I have 
even carried it to the extreme of not 
permitting my men to run long distances 
in the spring training camp, instead 
making them sprint. The old ball play- 
ers could run and hit and throw as well 
as the men of to-day. But the whole 
game was not as fast. The" old players 
did not think as quickly. They weren't 
trained to. There was none of the 
lightning-like strategic moves that you 
see in the parks to-day. To be sure some 
of the old timers were just as foxy, but 
they were foxy as individuals not as 
teams. They did not work together along 
tricky, speedy lines. 

That is, they didn't until 1894. Well 
do I remember that year. Like all the 
other clubs, except one that we didn't 
know about and which opened our eyes 
the first games w T e had with them that 
season, we were playing straight-away 
baseball. We were pounding the ball, 
and running and fielding at high gear. 
But w r e lacked team work. This team 
I speak of had suddenly come into the 
possession of team work. They were 
the Baltimore Orioles. 

I recall a game we had with them. 
McGraw, Kelly, Robinson, Gleason, 
and more of those foxy old timers were 
on the Baltimore team. We met them 
with our old style, straight-away game. 

There came an inning with Kelly on 
first and McGraw at the bat. Kelly 
raced down to second. Our shortstop 
hurried to cover the bag, when to our 
amazement McGraw hit the ball, driv- 
ing it cleanly through the gap in the 
defenses that our shortstop had left. 
Kelly kept on running until he reached 
third with McGraw safe on first. We 
called it a fluke. A few innings later, 
however, this same play was duplicated ; 
then we knew there was something new 
in baseball. It was "the hit and 1 run." 

That was only one of the many stra- 
tegic plays that the Baltimore team de- 
veloped and that changed the entire 
game. They pulled all sorts of intricate, 
clever little plays. They even went so 
far as to reconstruct the baseball field at 
Baltimore to suit their purposes. Before 
practice one day, I discovered that the 
base path from home to first was graded 
down hill. Obviously this was for the 
benefit of Baltimore's offensive tactics. 
They had a number of fast runners and, 
as I learned in a game that afternoon, 
the down hill baseline had been built to 
increase their speed'. They uncovered a 
sensational series of bunts, invariably 
beating out the ball to first. 

Making them Roll Safe 

That same day we were marveling 
why so many of their bunts fell safe. 
You know, the bunt is an extremely dif- 
ficult play. To tap a ball so that it rolls 
tantalizingly along the third baseline, 
just out of reach of the pitcher and the 
baseman, requires some pretty delicate 
work. All the Orioles' bunts went right 
in the same place, the same groove. It 
occurred to me to look at that part of 
the field, too. I discovered that from the 
foul line the ground sloped down to the 
infield. In other words, those foxy Ori- 
oles had erected a ridge so that it was 
difficult for any of their bunts to roll 

To repeat, that transformed baseball. 
Soon all the teams were doing the Bal- 
timore stunt, not changing the typo- 
graphy of their diamonds, but playing 
scientific baseball. Led by Tenny and 
Long, Boston soon got into Baltimore's 
class. So did Chicago, of whose men 



Lange and Dahlen specialized at tricks. 
There began an era of "foxy baseball." 
It started foxy pitching. Before that 
most pitchers had gone up and mowed 
down the batters by sheer speed or va- 
riety of curves. Now, pitchers began to 
use their heads more. "Brain pitching" 
came to be favored. This sort of pitching 
interested me, and I think I can say with 
all modesty that I got as much out of it 
as anybody. 

I have often been asked how those 
old teams, Boston and Baltimore, would 
do if they were placed in competition 
to-day. Boston would be a well-balanced 
ball club, even to-day. Not Baltimore. 
The Orioles were not an all-round strong 
team. They were weak in the pitcher's 
box, in the outfield, and at first base. 
Because of the tricks they used', unknown 
at the time, they were able to show 
head and shoulders above clubs that 
were just as strong. You can see what 
would happen to the Orioles to-day, be- 
ing a poorly balanced team and facing 
clubs that knew all the tricks they did. 
With Boston, however, I would call the 
Orioles the great modern ball club. 
Neither one, however, compares with the 
Philadelphia Athletics of to-day. 

Let us consider for a moment the 
really great baseball clubs. After these 
teams came Brooklyn. The Superbas, 
you may remember, raided Baltimore 
and took away nearly all the stars ex- 
cept McGraw. Then Pittsburgh, with 
that wonderful pitching trio, Tannehill, 
Phillipi and Chesbro, was a great ball 
club. So were the Boston Americans, 
when they had Parent, Ferris, Freeman, 
Dougherty, Criger and Dineen. The 
Chicago White Sox had a wonderful 
club, powerful in the pitching box with 
Walsh, White, Smith and Altrock. Go- 
ing to pieces they gave way to Detroit's 
team of terrific sluggers, that smashed 
their way for three successive years to 
American League championships. Un- 
derstand, I am only mentioning great 
ball clubs, so next come the Chicago 
Cubs and when that machine went to 
pieces, there is the Athletics. Unless I 
am wrong the Athletics have a few more 
years as an unusual club. They have 
natural ability, which is the underlying 
reason for their success. 

I have observed a decided change in 
the attitude of crowds. As I said, a 
keener sense of sportsmanship appears to 
have been developed' in the baseball fans 
of the country. Let us go back to 1894. 
I recall how the Baltimore crowds acted 
when Tebeau led his Cleveland team 
against the Orioles that year. It was nip 
and tuck and Tebeau's tactics were ag- 
gressive. On more than one occasion 
his team was stoned and egged. I have 
seen ball pla5 r ers come out of parks, their 
uniforms smeared with decayed vegeta- 
bles, eggs, and lumps of sod. I have seen 
them cut by flying bottles. All this has 
changed. Not in the last twenty years, 
but since the formation of the American 

In the old days, a crowd of 12,000 was 
remarkably good. To have 20,000 peo- 
ple in a ball park was unheard of. In- 
deed the largest park twenty years ago 
held only 15,000 people. You know that 
a crowd of 40,000 is not uncommon to- 
day. I do not think that the attitudes 
of crowds wholly changed until after 
1900. Indeed it was since then that the 
Alderman of St. Louis had to pass an 
ordinance making the throwing of bot- 
tles in ball parks a misdemeanor. 

What the Crowds Want 

Club owners realize to-day that they 
are obligated to guard and protect their, 
patrons and players. In a theater, if 
you hiss an actor you are invariably 
thrown out. You ought to be. So it is 
with baseball. If a man in the stands 
persistently abuses a player, he is put 
out of the grounds. This is only some- 
thing recent, but it marks the final step 
in establishing baseball as a decent pro- 
fession. Crowds to-day demand great 
talent. They want to sec a great ball 
game. They want their pets to win. If 
the home team loses, however, they go 
home more or less satisfied provided they 
have seen a good game of ball. 

In Washington, for instance, when- 
ever Cobb, Baker, or any other star 
comes to bat, he gets a big hand from 
the crowd. That is significant. The 
Cobbs and Bakers are playing against 
the home team, yet Washington fans 
applaud. So it is with all other cities. 


The crowds of to-day are not narrowly 
partisan in that they will not applaud 
good work by another team. In other 
words, they have developed the sense 
of sportsmanship. 

I have observed that it is only in those 
cities where there is a peculiar mixture 
of foreign blood that this is not true. 
I mean especially Cincinnati. Cincin- 
nati was about the last city to get an 
idea that such a thing as sportsmanship 
in baseball was possible. I know they 
were the last city to give up the practice 
of running players out of town. Indeed, 
I doubt if they've given it up yet. I know 
that for days there was a group of fans 
who got together, sat in the same place, 
and hissed and hooted every move that 
Steinfelt made. They succeeded in 
driving him out of Cincinnati. Of 
course, this turned out fortunately for 
"Steiney" as it landed him a berth on 
the championship Chicago team. I man- 
aged a ball club in Cincinnati, and I 
know. When they get a man down there, 
they jump on him. The psychology of 
Cincinnati baseball crowds is a fearful 
and wonderful thing. 

In following the development of um- 
pires, I can see no very significant 
changes. Umpires have always been 
fearless. When I broke into the league 
I heard a story of Ferguson, a player 
who finished as an umpire. One day 
an angry home team mob surrounded 
him and threatened to kill him. Fergu- 
son seized a baseball bat and shouted 
"I'm only one man to your thousand, 
but if you don't think that I can protect 
myself, just pitch in and give it a trial!" 

The old timers spoke of Ferguson 
as the nerviest umpire of his day. I 
think the best exhibition of nerve that 
I know of was given by Joe Cantillion. 
He was umpiring a game of ball in De- 
troit one Saturday, and he was mobbed. 
He was told that if he showed up at 
the park on the following day, he would 
get worse. Cantillion showed up. And 
because there was a disturbance he for- 
feited the game against Detroit in spite 
of what the home crowd had threatened.; 
then he faced them all down. 

I dare say just as plucky things have 
been done by present day umpires. I 
know that Billy Evans has been mixed 

up in some pretty close escapes. I have 
heard he was the victim of a bottle 
throwing affair that nearly ended in a 
fractured skull. Yet Evans came back 
and faced that same crowd the next day. 
Technically, umpires haven't im- 
proved. That is, as a class. Some are 
better, some are worse. They have some 
umpires to-day who are worse than any 
I ever saw in the old days. The reason 
is that they are using twice as many as 
they used to, and there are not enough 
good ones to go around. Men like Gaff"- 
ney, Lynch, and Sheridan, I recall as 
being especially good umpires. 

An Umpire Has No Friends 

I want, however, to say a word for 
the umpire. Baseball fans do not realize 
his peculiar position. An umpire's first 
requisite is nerve. I have never ques- 
tioned that in one of them. I have only 
questioned their ability. The umpire's 
is an extremely undesirable position be- 
cause he must isolate himself. He has 
no friends. That is, no baseball friends. 
I do not think the average fan knows that 
an umpire is not allowed to associate 
with players. When he is traveling 
around the circuit he must keep to him- 
self. He rides in another part of the 
train ; he stays at a different hotel. When 
he is not working at the ball park, he 
cannot keep the company of the players. 
If he happens to speak to anybody in 
his hotel lobby, it may be some fan who 
has a grudge against him. On him there 
is a curse. He is one of the loneliest 
men in the world. 

To hold an umpire's job takes spirit. 
To stand the gaff, he must be game. If 
he isn't game, he will look for alibis and 
try to square his decisions. If he does 
that he's lost. He can never please 
everybody. Everybody says he's "rot- 
ten," newspapers included. Put your- 
self in his place. How do you imagine 
it would feel? I wish to emphasize the 
fact that none of us, managers, players, 
or friend's, give the umpire the credit 
that is due him. 

It was Ban Johnson who changed 
things for the umpire. Before the 
American League, $2,100 was a high- 
water mark as an umpire's salary. To- 



day, the best of our American League 
umpires receive as much as $4,000. 
Among the many other wonderful things 
that Ban Johnson has done for base- 
ball is to systematize the umpire prob- 
lem. He has done his utmost to secure 
the best umpires obtainable. He has 
raised their pay and their standards. He 
has been scrupulous in keeping them 
apart from the players, — a very impor- 
tant thing. By association an umpire 
might become unconsciously prejudiced 
in favor of a certain player. But more 
than anything, Johnson was the first 
man of power in baseball to stick by 
his umpires, and to back them up in any 
thing they did. Did you ever hear of 
an American League umpire being in- 

Origin of the Scout 

It was Johnson who conceived the idea 
of scouting for umpires just as play- 
ers are scouted for. This scouting sys- 
tem is a very new thing. In the old 
days, and by the old days I mean not 
ten years ago, organized scouting was 
unknown. Men did not tramp the coun- 
try looking for promising players. We 
heard about youngsters or read about 
them and then sent somebody out to sign 
them. During the early years I had 
charge of the New York American 
League Club I never paid a scout a 
nickel. All the men I got from the 
Yankees w T ere picked out of the bushes. 
I was either tipped off to them by 
friends, or I read about them in local 
papers. But I judge every fan under- 
stands to-day the modern scouting sys- 

To-day, baseball is a big profession. 
As a profession it is a thousand per cent 
better than when I started. Then it was 
full of "rough necks." It was common 
belief that to be popular a player had to 
be a "rounder." Not until the forma- 
tion of the American League did things 
begin to get really better. The present 
generation of ball players is as clean as 
any other profession. I can best com- 
pare them to civil engineers. There are 
many reasons for this, many college men 
have entered the game. But that isn't 
the basic reason. 

A word about college men in baseball. 
Ten years ago it was considered more 
or less disgraceful for a man with a 
college education to enter baseball. Now 
many college men look forward to base- 
ball as a profession. They do this for a 
very good reason. In contrast to the 
fellow who comes up from the lots, they 
have two angles on the game. They can 
either play until they are about thirty 
years old and make enough money to 
set them up in business or their chosen 
profession ; or if they fail, they can still 
go back to their profession without hav- 
ing suffered the loss of much time. They 
can either win, or remain as they were 
before they took the chance. The college 
man in baseball cannot lose. 

But the real reason for the change in 
baseball as a profession is a far deeper 
thing. Perhaps I can put it best by say- 
ing that the modern ball player has the 
spirit of a soldier. He has a pride in his 
work that you do not find anywhere 
outside the Army or Navy. He is as 
lo} T al to the honesty of the game as the 
soldier is to the flag. He is proud of 
the game. If you were to ask a ball 
player of to-day to throw a game, he'd 
probably knock you down. Twenty years 
ago — if you happened on the right man, 
he would have listened to you, and 
asked how much there was in it for 

Baseball is a melting pot for charac- 
ter. I have seen all classes take it level, 
which is, pride in the profession. I have 
seen the rankest "kids" — and I have 
one in mind, a fellow who could do 
anything, a rat picked up off the lots — 
get into professional baseball to-day and 
be changed completely. By association 
with the men around him, the "kid" in 
this instance developed honesty and pride. 
I would trust him if he were on my club 
with anything. 

To-day, ball players work with har- 
mony. If one man finds out a weakness 
in an opposing pitcher, he tells it to his 
team mates. He doesn't keep it to him- 
self so that he can star individually. 
There is a wonderful spirit of corps in 
baseball to-day. 

The status of the manager has 
changed. In the old days he used to be 
sort of a watch-dog. One of his functions 



was to see that certain players kept sober. 
A man who doesn't observe strict train- 
ing rules has about as much chance in 
baseball to-day as would a blind man. 
Managers have no use for the "rounder." 
I recall one manager who used to spend 
his evenings following his players about 
town. To-day, the players will come vo 
the manager instead of avoiding him. 
They have confidence in him. They 
not only discuss baseball, but often 
personal affairs, and seek his advice. 
Obviously the manager of to-day has 
to be a little more than a watchdog. 

As far as the playing of the game is 
concerned, he has become a decided fac- 
tor. At all critical stages he must ab- 
solutely be ready to direct the play. In 
the last analysis of crucial games, it all 
devolves on him. Do not get from this 
that baseball teams of to-day are merely 
machines. I never believe in subor- 
dinating the individuality of a player. I 
know that Connie Mack doesn't either. 
As I often say to my men, "Any time 
a man drops his guard, hit him! Don't 
wait to be told." By this I mean that 
if there is ever a hole shown in the 
front of the opposing team, take advan- 
tage of it. 

Before pointing out certain important 
steps in the development of baseball 
commercially, it may be wise to con- 
sider some statistics that are significant. 

Twenty years ago, the rent of the 
Chicago park was $3,500. To-day it is 
$15,000. I remember when the Polo 
Grounds, including Manhattan Field, 
rented for $10,000. To-day I'm given 
to understand that this propertv costs 
the New York club $70,000 a year. In 
the old days it used to cost us $10,000 
a year for traveling expenses, that is, 
to play the out-of-town games. The 
individual cost per man was figured at 
$2. To-day, the average bill is $27,000. 
We stop at $4-a-day hotels. The best 
of trainers, rubbers and railroad ac- 
commodations are engaged. In the old 
days, men had to rub themselves. Now 
it has come even to the point where 
if a critical series is impending, we do 
not trust our players to riding in public 
conveyances. There might be a meet- 
ing with some overkeyed fan. We do 
not take chances. We engage taxicabs 

to carry our men from railroad station 
to hotel, from hotel to ball park. 

When Philadelphia and Detroit were 
having such a race of it for the pennant 
a few years ago, there was not a little 
bad feeling caused by Cobb's uninten- 
tentional spiking of Baker. During those 
closing games in Philadelphia, Manager 
Jennings, of the Detroit team, took the 
utmost precaution to keep his players 
in strict privacy. I would do the same 
thing if such a situation arose this year 
with the Washington club. 

Beginnings of Big Business 

But the days of $10,000-a-year travel- 
ing expenses didn't come for a long time. 
The first significant step in the com- 
mercializing of baseball was the tour 
of the old Cincinnati Reds. Harry 
Wright, his tour with the Nationals 
failing, conceived the idea of organizing 
a baseball team in Cincinnati and putting 
it on an out-and-out salary basis. So the 
Cincinnati "Red Stockings" were formed 
with an open salary list. Wright de- 
cided to uniform his men in knicker- 
bockers to make them distinctive from 
the amateurs who played in long trous- 
ers. He also imported players by the 
wholesale from the East, thus establish- 
ing early the non-resident principle upon 
which all our professional teams of to- 
day are founded. Another big step 
toward a sound business basis for the 
handling of his and other teams to come 
was in Wright's making all his players 
sign contracts. These bound them to 
give their exclusive services as ball play- 
ers to the "Red Stockings" between 
March 15 and November 15, 1869. For 
this period they were paid an average 
of $100 a month, absurdly small when 
one considers the salaries of to-day. But 
as a matter of fact the entire annual 
salary list of Wright's team was only 
$9,300, or less than some managers of 
to-day, who do not even play, receive. 

As a money-maker baseball began to 
boom. Meeting with instant financial 
success, the "Red Stockings" soon went 
on tour, playing everywhere before big 
crowds. They crossed the continent. The 
whole country watched them. News- 
papers began to show f their scores on 



bulletin boards and Harry Wright be- 
came the first baseball impresario. 

After this successful tour, there came 
five black years— 1871 to 1876— that 
almost killed the young business. Gam- 
blers infested baseball. The country 
became "baseball crazy." Hundreds of 
diamonds were laid out, hundreds of 
dollars taken in at the gate, hundreds 
of dollars paid the players for throw- 
ing games the way gamblers wanted them 
to go. Disgusted with the situation, the 
few remaining amateur teams had passed 
out of existence and by 1871 baseball 
passed into the hands of the first pro- 
fessional league — the National Associa- 
tion. So far as solidifying the business 
basis, introducing system, clearing and 
defining professionalism were concerned, 
this was a great step forward. But there 
was the parasite of gambling eating out 
everything clean and decent that was in 
the commercialized baseball of the "Red 

Slowly at first, then swiftly, the at- 
tendance at games all over the country 
began to fall off. Respectable people 
would have none of baseball. Gate re- 
ceipts grew smaller and smaller. A num- 
ber of clubs closed their parks. The 
owners lost money. From the pulpit 
preachers began to storm against base- 
ball. Political reformers made it an 
issue. Editorials in newspapers warned 
against it. Of the visit of A. G. Spal- 
ding's clean players to a middle Western 
town the local newspaper wrote: — 

"They comported themselves more like 
Christians than like professional ball 

Demoralization had set in. What had 
promised to be a thriving business was 
toppling and would have fallen, had not 
the little decent element left in baseball 
seen the need for instant action. But 
they did— A. G. Spalding, W. A. Hul- 
bert, Harry Wright, and others — and 
in 1876, they planned and executed a 
coup that snatched baseball from the 
hands of the gamblers and delivered it 
to the National League, an organiza- 
tion of their own conception, which laid 
the foundation for the great business 
that baseball is to-day. 

When William Hulbert, whose money 
was invested in the Chicago team asked 

Spalding to bring his championship Bos- 
ton club out to Chicago, Spalding re- 
plied: — 

"Not for a million, while those gam- 
blers are out there." 

That set Hulbert to thinking. He 
saw that baseball in the hands of the 
players had been a failure, and had let 
in the gamblers. He realized that the 
failure would be irretrievable unless 
baseball was immediately put into the 
hands of clean principled and able busi- 
ness men. After the Chicago and Boston 
teams had played their series, Hulbert 
and Spalding got together. After days 
of conference, they conceived the idea 
of the National League. It was to be a 
combination of the owners of the largest 
ball clubs, its purpose to make baseball 
a solid business, conducted on uniform 
rules and with one central governing 
body, the National League. It was or- 
ganized in 1876, all the club owners 
agreeing to bar out the gamblers, to dis- 
qualify players who associated with gam- 
blers, to dismiss any club that failed to 
fill a schedule date and to observe all 
rules regarding the breaking of contracts 
and the jumping of players. 

Evils of Free Competition 

Under this centralization, baseball 
began to prosper. By making attractive 
schedules, advertising their dates in ad- 
vance and filling the dates with clean 
baseball in clean parks, the National 
League club owners began to make 
money. In fact, they made so much 
money that by 1880 other shrewd busi- 
ness men had seen the opportunity and 
were putting teams and leagues in the 
field. By 1881 the competition of one of 
these leagues — the American Associa- 
tion — had become intense. Players of 
the National League were breaking con- 
tracts and jumping to the American As- 
sociation and vice versa. The players 
went where they were paid the most 
money, and to hold them the club own- 
ers boosted salaries all out Qf proportion. 
Obviously expenses began to overbalance 
receipts, and in 1883, the American As- 
sociation suffering as well as the Na- 
tional, an armistice between the two 
organizations was declared. 



This lesulted in the drawing up or 
the National agreement — a document 
that gave to baseball the necessary execu- 
tive machinery. It bound the different 
organizations to a code of rules for the 
settling of all inter and intra league dis- 
putes. It established the player as the 
property of the club to which he was 
under contract and forbade any other 
club to acquire that property until the 
holder was done with it. Reasonable lim- 
its were placed upon salaries. Perfect 
co-operation between the different leagues 
was secured and the administration of 
this new machinery was placed in the 
hands of an executive body called the 
National Board. 

Then fighting began. In 1884 and 
1890 the players revolted and formed 
independent leagues, each of which 

lasted one year. This showed that beyond 
all doubt baseball had to be in the 
hands of business men. The players 
could not run it. Then came the next 
step in 1891, when the National League 
took four of the American Association 
clubs into partnership, thus increasing 
its own circuit to twelve cities. This 
the National League enjoyed until an- 
other group of men saw their opportu- 
nity, went after it, and got it — the men 
of the American League. 

From my experience as a player, a 
manager, a club owner, I have seen all 
phases, considered all sides of baseball. 
I can honestly say that the present high 
standard of the game, its increasing spint 
of sportsmanship, is due more than any- 
thing to the organization of the Ameri- 
can League under Ban Johnson. 



HE plats a town upon the plain 
And booms it in advance of man, 
Without a thought or hope of gain, 
By giving lots to all his clan. 

Erect he stands upon his feet, 
Alert with ever-watchful eyes, 

Nor cares he for the county seat, 
Nor bonded railroad's coming ties. 

Ambition has no charm for him, 
Proud peer of socialistic clan ; 

No office-seeking fad nor whim 
Could make of him an alderman. 

Without the selfish greed of men, 
No fortune does he hoard and save; 

He lives contented in his den, 
And, dying, finds a ready grave. 

O how I would love to be 
Such a lucky dog as he ! 
Never has oppressive cares, 
No one stabs him unawares; 
No one smothers him with lies, 
No one takes him by surprise. 
O how I would love to be 
Such a lucky dog as he! 




Illustrated with Diagrams 

The Things to Take and Not to Take to Make Your Walking 

Trip a Success 

IKING over country roads 
and woodlands is a de- 
light to an ever-increasing 
army of city men. The 
desk man who works in 
~H> store or factory gets but 
little opportunity to indulge in this sport, 
except at vacation time, and it seems es- 
pecially adapted to him, for by selecting 
the proper route he may get a pleasant 
mixture of wilderness, rural life and 
summer-resort pleasures. 

It is a splendid physical and mental 
recreation, if properly indulged in, giv- 
ing moderate and sustained exercise, in- 
teresting experiences, and valuable in- 
formation gained in a pleasant manner. 

We have nothing to do just now with 
routes or equipment for hunting or fish- 
ing. It is assumed that the vacationist 
wishes to get his pleasure principally 
from the exercise of walking and from 
the adventures and scenery and from 
the experience of sleeping and preparing 
his meals out of doors. The suggestions 
offered are designed especially for the 
man who has but two or three weeks 
at his disposal and who wishes to equip 
himself properly for that length of 

The experience from which the follow- 
ing suggestions are drawn covers the 
north central section of the United 
States, but as the same general condi- 
tions exist in many other localities, the 
ideas may be equally applicable over a 
considerable area. 

Do not spend a lot of money on an 
elaborate outfit. You will be more com- 
fortable and less conspicuous in ordinary 
clothes, which will be just as practical 


if properly selected. You probably pos- 
sess most of the essential articles. If 
you travel in the heat of summer, avoid 
woolen underdrawers and woolen outer 
shirts. Any authority who disputes this 
has never suffered from hives or prickly 
heat, or he would change his mind. 

Get the drawers full length and of bal- 
briggan, and be sure they fit. Balbrig- 
gan dries almost as quickly as wool and 
is far cooler. Your knees will become 
chafed from dust and perspiration if you 
wear knee-length drawers. 

Your undershirt should be of very 
light-weight wool if you can wear it, or 
of ribbed cotton. Exercising in the hot 
sunshine will make you perspire freely 
about the waist and upper body, so you 
need an absorbent covering there, and 
one which will protect you from the chill 
of a sudden cold wind. Wool is best for 
this purpose. 

A nice shirt of this kind is the sleeve- 
less, buttonless, snugly fitting athletic 
jersey. It absorbs freely, is easily 
cleaned, does not wrinkle and will serve 
as part of a bathing suit if necessary. 
Have it light in weight, however, for you 
will be miserable if your body is con- 
tinually smothered in its own heat. 

The dark blue or black chambray 
shirt with the soft collar attached can- 
not be excelled for the outer shirt. It 
is sometimes called "the working-man's 
shirt," and if dark in color will not show 
the dust or perspiration stains at the 
waist or arm-pits. The wool army shirt, 
so much affected by hunters, is too hot. 

Let the trousers be light in weight 
also, but they should be of wool and 
dark colored. A sound pair that has 



seen its best days is just the thing. 
Either suspenders or a light belt may 
be used to support them. Suspenders 
are apt to chafe your shoulders, but they 
allow loosely fitting waists, which give 
coolness and muscular freedom. Have 
flaps on the pockets, arranged to button 
in the contents. 

Wear a soft hat with a fairly wide 
brim, and replace the leather sweat band 
with one of cloth. Flannel is good. 
Sweaty leather poisons the skin and does 
not hold on your hat as well as cloth. 
A cap does not give sufficient air space 
above your head to break the force of the 
sun's rays. 

Have the stockings fit perfectly, of 
lisle or cotton, and either fast color black 
or with white feet.* They should be 
light in w r eight, but heavy enough to be 
absorbent and to form a slight cushion 
for the feet. Do not wear an elastic 
garter that encircles your leg, for it will 
retard the circulation which this form of 
exercise stimulates. A safety pin answers 
the purpose perfectly. 

A "hiker's" shoes are really the most 
important part of his outfit, and are the 
feature most often neglected or mis- 
judged by the amateur. They will make 
or mar your outing, and do it in a hurry, 

Don't make the fatal mistake of wear- 
ing heavy, cumbersome, high boots, of the 
"storm" variety, thinking you will look 
picturesque. You may succeed in this 
effort, but the expression on your face 
after a ten-hour, twenty-mile ordeal will 
make you a fit model for a picture of 
intense disgust and misery. They are 
hot, they hurt, and they don't help. 
Their only purpose is to protect against 
thorny bushes and deep mud and for this 
purpose leggings are better and can be 
removed when not needed. 

It is almost, if not quite, as fatal to 
wear new shoes, for these will chafe your 
heels, skin your toes and tire your 
ankles. As the Irishman said, "any- 
one of those miseries is two too many." 

Have them of ordinary height, reach- 
ing above your ankles so as to keep out 
pebbles, waterproof them if you wish, 

* This is contrary to the usual advice, 
which is heavy wool for the feet. 

although this makes them hot, and have* 
them sound with only a medium thick 
sole. Above all things have them well 
broken in to the action of your foot. 
Remember that the success of this form 
of outing rests primarily on your feet 
standing the strain, so help them all you 
can. Your feet will probably become 
swollen and fevered anyway, but a cold 
bath will cure that. 

Your shoes and stockings must be 
right, or it will be "back to the fire- 
side" for you in a hurry, with the women 
folks rushing for arnica for their poor, 
frail boy. 

The reader will have observed that all 
the clothing so far recommended is best 
adapted to hot weather, and it is inten- 
tionally so. Most of the weather you 
encounter or select for this kind of an 
outing is warm and walking with a 
burden makes it seem still warmer. If 
you feel too cool, you can warm up by 
exercising, but if you are too warm you 
cannot cool off without trouble and 

The Uses of the Sweater Coat 

To provide against cold winds, for 
protection after a cold or exhausting 
swim, and for use on damp or cold 
nights, carry a good sweater coat. You 
can hardly get it too thick. When you 
do need extra warmth, you need it quick 
and plenty. 

An ideal garment of this kind has a 
shawi collar and is of a weave known 
as "Shaker-knit." The shawl collar 
keeps the neck and base of the brain 
w r arm, two sensitive points. Have your 
sweater pure wool in any event, and of a 
coarse weave, so that there will be plenty 
of the tiny air chambers in the texture 
which help so greatly in giving or retain- 
ing warmth. 

Do not bother with a coat of any kind. 
It will be useless and in the way. 

Opinions differ as to the best way of 
preparing for the night when you are 
sleeping out of doors. Some favor carry- 
ing a silk "A" tent, which is so collaps- 
ible that it can be crushed into the pocket. 
Any tent which is small enough to be 
portable by a pedestrian is sure to be 
"stuffy," it shuts away your view of 



the stars, and serves no theoretical pur- 
pose but shedding rain and keeping out 
mosquitoes, both of which it does with 
poor success in practice. 

It is a lot more fun to be right out in 
the open when you sleep, and you can be 
made perfectly safe and comfortable. 
You need a woolen blanket, a rubber 
cloth, a piece of mosquito netting, and 
some kind of a bed. 

Your wool blankets should be of pure 
stuff, of full size, clean and fluffy, and 
of a dark color which will not show 
dirt or attract insects. It need not, be 
heavy weight, for here again the tiny 
air chambers in the fabric will do much 
to keep 3 ? ou warm, and if the suggestions 
regarding the bed, later on, are adopted, 
you will have sufficient extra covering to 
make up for a light weight blanket. 

Your rubber cloth is satisfactorily 
supplied in the army "poncho" sold by 
most sporting goods houses and army 



salesrooms. It has a slit cut in the 
center to admit the passage of the head, 
but the slit is protected with a button 
flap which makes the surface practically 
unbroken if you wish to use the cloth 
on your bed, or as a tent in case of rain. 
Oilcloth may be used, but it cracks 
easily from heat and usage, tears and 
frays quickly from wear, and is not as 
waterproof as rubber. 

This cloth serves a number of useful 
purposes. It may be worn while walking 
to keep off the rain or break the force 
of the wind ; it may be spread over a 
mattress of wet leaves or grass, or on 
your bed ; you can sit on it if the ground 
is wet, or use it as a wind break after 
your camp is established. The army 
"poncho" has eyelets along all the edges 
so that the cloth may be easily tied in 
any desired position. 

Mosquito netting may hardly be con- 
sidered as a blanket, although one old- 
timer once remarked that 
he thought it "kept out 
the coarsest part of the 

It is essential to peace- 
ful sleep, however, for 
mosquitoes can keep you 
awake all night, their 
stings are often poison- 
ous, and long walks are 
so fatiguing that sound 
sleep is very necessary. 

Black is preferable. 
White attracts insects and 
other colors are poisonous. 
Arranged over the head 
of your bed with the help 
of sticks forced into the 
ground, with the edges 
falling on the bed clothes 
or tucked in, it works ex- 
cellently. While you are 
moving about on your 
feet, drape it over your 
wide brimmed hat so that 
it falls all about your 
head, and tie or tuck the 
edges snugly about your 
neck. This, with the pro- 
tection afforded by your 
clothing and carbolated 
vaseline on your hands, 
will give you ample pro- 




tectlon in almost any northern locality. 

One of the cleverest and most useful 
articles ever devised for out of door 
sleeping is the bed roll herewith de- 
scribed and illustrated. 

It weighs little, costs little, may be 
made at home, and serves its purpose 
excellently. In addition to its value as 
a bed, it is also a knapsack, pack cloth, 
hammock, and easy chair. In one form 
or another it is in wide use among 
"hikers," campers, and men whose life 
takes them into the open. 

It should be made of mattress ticking 
or light canvas, perferably tan. It con- 
sists of a strip six feet long with loops 
or hems on the long edges. These per- 
mit the insertion of long poles, cut at the 
camp ground, which rest on parallel logs 
or mounds of stone or earth, which lift 
it off the ground, making it springy and 
keeping it dry. 

If you do not mind the slight added 
weight, this simple style may be im- 
proved on in many practical ways. 

Make the strip twelve feet long, in- 
stead of six. Fold over one end until 
you have a compartment eighteen inches 
by the width of the goods, which should 
be about three feet. Then sew together 
two of the open edges, and you have a 
place to store your small articles. If this 
compartment is padded with leaves or 
grass at night, and folded over until it 
rests on the main section, it makes a 
good pillow. 

Three feet of material at the bottom 
may be folded over the sleeper's legs, 
thus preventing him from kicking out his 
feet during the night, to serve as mos- 
quito bait. Eyelets placed in the two 
corners of this flap will enable you to 
tie it securely in position by means of a 
connecting string run under your body. 

Another addition which will prevent 
you from becoming uncovered during the 
night, from restlessness or the wind, is 
in the form of two strips or "wings," 
sewn on the two edges of the central six 
feet. These may be folded over your 
body, and tied if necessary by strings 
running beneath the bed. If the top 
"wing" is folded in the direction of 
the wind it protects you from its effects. 

By placing sticks between the two 
long poles, yoa get a practical hammock, 

a sure enough luxury for a man who is 
"roughing it." 

With a little practice, one may also 
arrange the sticks so that a serviceable 
steamer chair is obtained. 

When you break camp remove the 
padding from the pillow, insert your 
cooking utensils, roll your wool blanket 
up in the canvas, and you are packed. 
This pack may be in the form of a long 
roll, to be worn across the body from 
shoulder to hip, as the soldiers wear it, 
or it may be arranged to sling from your 
shoulders with straps, or to carry in the 
hand. Fold and tie on your sweater coat 
and rubber cloth separately, so they will 
be easily and quickly accessible. 

Cooking utensils depend somewhat on 
the amount of food you must prepare at 
each cooking, on the game-producing 
qualities of the country, and on how far 
you stray from civilization with its sup- 
plies of partially prepared foods. It is 
here assumed that the vacationist will 
keep within fairly easy reach of farms or 

All You Need for Cooking 

A two-quart pail with a cover, a ~arge 
cup, a deep soup plate, all of seamless 
metal; a small frying-pan of ordinary or 
government style, and a knife, fork and 
spoon meet all requirements when pieced 
out with what Nature can supply. Slabs 
of clean wood or bark make excellent 
plates, a sharp stick makes a good fork, a 
spoon is easily made of wood, and most 
fish and game may be cooked in a mud 
casing or broiled on a stick. These 
makeshifts do the work required of them 
with surprisfng success, and make you 
feel like a real woodsman, to say noth- 
ing of enabling you to boast of your clev- 
erness to "the boys" when you get back 

How to cook and what to cook are big 
subjects, and well worth study by those 
needing the information. Several good 
books are published, devoted particularly 
to the preparation of food in the open. 
Horace Kephart's "Camping and Wood- 
craft" is among the best. 

It will be sufficient to point out here 
that the exercise of walking stimulates 
the action of the appetite and bowels and 



uses up lots of energy, so that nourishing, 
digestible food is very necessary. A con- 
stant or generous diet of canned goods or 
greasy food will quickly upset your 
stomach and weaken you. 

Building good fires and making them 
do as you wish under all conditions is a 
fine art only to be acquired by experi- 
ence. A few hints will help, however. 
Never try to cook over a fire that is 
flaming or smoking. Let it burn down 
to coals, running a second fire to supply 
hot coals if necessary. 

In building any fire lay on your sticks 
crisscross, so as to allow air to freely cir- 
culate. This supplies the draft and is 
the very life of the fire. Build up a lit- 
tle tower first, with your paper or leaves 
free from weight, and lay on your larger 
sticks after the fire is going well. Al- 
ways start the fire with dead, dry wood. 

For a cooking fire, arrange two logs 
or two rows of earth or stones about ten 
inches apart and a foot high, in a long 
trough. If you use logs, bank them well 
with earth so they do not begin to blaze. 
Then put your coals in this trough. You 
then have a good "fore-and-aft" support 
for your cooking utensils, and you have 
plenty of room to work conveniently on 
several "messes" at once. ■ Two forked 
stakes at either end of the trough, con- 
nected by a pole, afford a frame for sup- 
porting the wires or notched sticks on 
which you may hang your stew and sim- 
mering pails. 

For a fire for heat, you need not chop 
up your sticks. Place the ends on the 
fire so that the sticks resemble the spokes 
of a wheel, and keep shoving the sticks 
up as they burn off. In Jeaving camp 
always put out your fire. This is an un- 
written and important law of the open. 

A hiker has need of a strong sheath- 
knife, but it should not be of the con- 
ventional "Bowie" pattern. The point 
on this knife is too long for skinning or 
slicing. It is designed for stabbing, and 
it is extremely improbable that you will 
meet any cave men or lions, and if you 
did, you would be a "goner" anyway. 

The blade of a sensible, useful knife 
should not be over six inches long; it 
should be thin and not too highly tem- 
pered, and should be blunt-pointed. An 
ordinary butcher-knife or a steel table- 

knife that can be kept sharp will be bet- 
ter than the usual hunting style. If you 
carry it in a sheath at your belt, be sure 
that it slips down tightly or is fastened 
in, so that it cannot fall out when you 
bend over. 

If you plan to eat and sleep outdoors, 
a good hatchet or hand-ax is a positive 
necessity. In choosing between a sheath- 
knife and a hatchet take the hatchet 
and put a little more work on your 
pocket-knife. This is a tool on which 
you can sensibly afford to spend enough 
money to insure getting a good one. 
The head should be of the curved 
edge variety and should weigh one and 


one-half or two pounds. It should be 
of high-grade steel and have a flat top. 
The style sold for household use, with a 
beveled edge, is poorly fitted for the work 
you will use it for. The handle should 
be. about eighteen inches long and should 
be curved like the handle of a large ax. 
It may help your grip on it if it is bound 
with tape or twine. 

Unless you are in a locality where you 
use it continuously for clearing a path, 
carry it in your pack. If you do carry 
it in a sheath at your hip sling it from 
your shoulder with a strap, for it will 
give you a stitch in your side if you 
hang it from your belt, and it will be li- 
able to catch in bushes. If you carry 
your ax and knife or other tools on a 
belt, provide a belt for that purpose 
alone, and let it sag well down over one 
hip. This relieves your waist of the 
weight and strain. Swell a loose handle 
tight by immersing the ax-head in water. 
A carborundum stone is an excellent 

Do not worry too much over possible 
mishaps, and carry a lot of remedies. 
The chances are that you will suffer only 
from blisters and sunburn and lameness. 
and cold water will take away most of 
the fatigue or foot fever. 



Carbolated vaseline is an ideal, all- 
round remedy for most of your other 
troubles of this sort. It is antiseptic, 
healing, allays pain, soothes sunburn, and 
lubricates a skinned heel to perfection. 
It also discourages insects who are bent 
on a bite or two, prevents or allays the 
inflammation of a blister, and does count- 
less other useful things. 

Wrap a bottle or large tube of this 
medicine in a yard of clean cotton sheet- 
ing, for bandages, tie up the package 
with a generous amount of cotton string, 
add a good-sized needle for puncturing 
blisters, and you have as efficient an 
emergency kit as you will probably need. 
In pricking a blister, begin your punc- 
ture a little distance from the raised skin, 
which will thus remain unbroken and 
will not become raw. 

Of course you will wish to become 
sunburned, but try to pick it up gradu- 
ally. Vaseline smeared on the skin will 
prevent it. The moment you feel your 
face or neck begin to burn, arrange your 
handkerchief or hat so as to shade that 
part,- for that is Nature's warning that 
that spot is beginning to "cook," and that 
means a lot of pain and a raw spot 
later on. 

Some "hikers" like to carry a canteen 
in order to insure a supply of drinkable 
water. This is a good idea if you travel 
far from a source of supply. Frequent 
drinking while on the march is unwise, 
however, and a tiny, round pebble held 
in the mouth will stimulate the flow of 
saliva and will do much to relieve your 
thirst. If you drink frequently while 
exercising you will first be bothered with 
"cotton mouth," then with the stomach, 
and then with biliousness or fever. 
When you do drink, drink moderately, 
and of water that is not exceedingly cold. 

You will need a stout pocket-knife and 
a small coil of soft, stove-pipe wire, the 
latter for binding shelter poles, or hang- 
ing pails. A watch is not at all neces- 
sary as a rule, but may be carried, and 
should be fastened to your clothing with 
a string. 

Many sportsmen have had satisfactory 
results from the "safety" match which 
strikes only on the box. They have the 
advantage of being small and of not 
igniting accidentally. On the other 

hand, they are useless, though dry, if the 
box gets wet, though they may be ignited 
by friction on glass, which you probably 
will not have. In any event carry them 
in a moisture-proof carrier, either a 
screw-top box or a suitable bag with a 

Carry your money in special holders, 
your change in a purse, and your reserve 
fund in a pocketbook attached to your 
clothing. Most sporting goods furnish- 
ers have a special article for this purpose, 
which has compartments for coins and 
bills, which snaps shut and can be pinned 
or buttoned on the inside of the waist- 

Don't carry a lot of paraphernalia for 
improving your looks. Our forefathers 
kept clean for centuries before soap was 
invented, by using lots of water, and so 
may you. The warm sunshine is an ex- 
cellent towel, and your hair will not stay 
brushed ten minutes anyhow. The ar- 
ticles necessary for a complete toilet do 
not weigh much, however, nor are they 
bulky, but try to limit them to razor, 
soap, comb, and towel. 

Most sporting publications and auto- 
mobile houses can supply you with re- 
liable maps of any desired region. The 
Geological Survey of the United States 
has maps showing the contour of the 
country, the location and extent of wa- 
terways and forests, and the location and 
character of roads, for almost every part 
of any state. 

Varying conditions found in various 
parts of the different states, the depend- 
ence the "hiker" wishes to place on fish 
and game, and the probability of his 
finding places where he will wish to 
"dress up" will possibly necessitate addi- 
tions or alterations to the outfit just sug- 
gested, but this is a sensible equipment 
with which the traveler may form the 
basis of his plans. 

Do not try to break any records on a 
trip of this kind. Enjoy the scenery and 
the country life, rest often, watch the 
birds and the clouds, and breathe deeply 
of the pure air, and you will return to 
your daily occupation vastly benefited in 
mind and body. 

Above all and beyond all, brother 
"hiker," do not lug along a lot of 
"junk," and wear easy, sensible shoes. 



By C. A. CAIN 

To Say Nothing of the Shaggy Dog That Barked with Joy When 
the Major s Float Went Under 

MEN the major asks a 
friend to go fishing 
with him, why it is 
that man's lucky day. 
The other day the 
major asked the ed- 
itor to go down on Lynn creek and spend 
the day with a hook and line. The 
editor accepted with joy and came back 
at dark with a dozen little "bull-head" 
catfish and a heart made whole again 
from the sunshine and the major's phil- 

The fishermen stopped at the old Lynn 
place, fourteen miles south of town. It 
is quite a place, this old Lynn farm. 
Colonel Lynn came to the state from 
Kentucky in 1859 with the major's 
father. The old Kentucky colonel 
looked at the hills on one side of the 
creek and at the meadow lands on the 
other side and swore that "this was the 
finest spot in the State." No prairies or 
bottom lands for him. He wanted a 
placed that looked as if it had been 
picked from a Kentucky landscape and 
this spot was made to order. He set 
stakes and settled down. He died there 
and his grave by the creek has been cov- 
ered with plum tree blossoms for forty 
summers as a token of the resurrection. 
Colonel Lynn's daughter still serves 
Kentucky dinners at the old place. 

At table rock, where the creek runs 
over a flat rock formation at the lower 
end of the Lynn farm, the fishing used to 
be fine. The fishing hole just below 
this rock is a classic in the annals of 
the neighborhood that have to do with 
fact and fiction about the catching of 
fish. Indians used to camp at table rock 
and catch fish for breakfast. And after 


them came Colonel Lynn and his friends. 
And then the men who buried Colonel 
Lynn fished at table rock. Now these 
men are old and their sons fish there. 
Now comes the major and "wets a line" 
where his father used to fish. 

Small wonder that the major forgot 
what law was or judges had been when 
he landed at table rock the other day. 
He wore a flannel shirt and his coat lay 
on the bank. He smoked a pipe and 
talked philosophy instead of politics. 
The lines were smoothed out of his face 
by the wind and sun. The memories of 
fifty years of bygone fishing days of the 
flat rock came up out of the water and 
talked to him and he answered in that 
forgotten tongue now unknown to all 
men but him and a chosen few. 

Some one asked the major at dinner 
time why he went to table rock when 
the fishing was better up the creek. 

"I like to hear the water talk and 
fuss as it falls over the rock," replied 
the major. 

In the afternoon the major and the 
editor wandered up the creek, away 
round the bend to a place the major 
chuckled reminiscently about when he 
mentioned it in blissful contemplation. 
"Best fishing hole in the world," he said. 
"Bull-heads there will swallow your bait, 
hook and sinker." 

It was a noble place to fish. Water 
dark and deep. Big trees growing right 
at the edge of the stream with their 
roots stretching along the bank to form 
a fine seat for a lazy fisherman. The 
major perched himself in a giant crotch 
formed by two of these tree-roots, called 
for a fishing worm, baited his hook, 
loaded his pipe and threw his line far 



into the creek. He looked like a pirate 
chief of the old South Seas, crouched in 
the cross trees of his ship, looking for 
a Spanish sail. 

The sun was hot and the major's chin 
sank forward contented on his chest. He 
told a story about a famous coon dog 
of that locality and how, years ago, this 
dog engaged in fierce battle with a coon 
at this very spot. 

The major's cork went under and he 
pulled up a crawfish. His remarks were 
concise, emphatic, clear and to the point. 

Then followed a happy little discourse 
upon Alexander Hamilton, his life, work, 
and writings. Thomas Jefferson came 
next, and then John Quincy Adams in 
the swirling procession of the major's 
fancy. The editor interpolated a few 
remarks about D'Artagnan and Captain 
Brazenhead. A little breeze blew up 
the creek, and the sun grew hotter still. 
It was such a scene as John Boyle 
O'Reilly delighted in when he wrote: 

"And I long for the dear old river, 
Where I dreamed my life away." 

It was a perfect afternoon in the early 
springtime, ideal for any fisherman, 
whether farmer boy leaving his chores 
to catch a "mess" for supper, or city man 
on a grand day's vacation seeking to be 
young again. The trees that lined the 
creek had budded out just enough to lace 
the water and the bank with light and 
shadow. There was a seductive smell 
from the rich brown earth. 

The influence that they call fisher- 
man's delight was abroad in the land. 
Men leave offices and stores to find it. 
They cannot tell why or wherefore, but 
at certain seasons certain men forget 
about family and money and business and 
every pleasure that the town has to offer 
and go to seek a creek bank and the 
gleam of sunlight through the trees and 
the ripple of water under the hand of 
an April wind, and the siren influence of 
a cork that bobs and flutters and sinks 
like a message and a token from the un- 
seen that is more to be desired than 
aught else. 

And just about this time the major got 
another bite. He pulled out a bull- 
head that weighed a pound, and the sat- 

isfaction in his face was worth a farm 
and a city lot and a sea-going yacht to 

Then the talk on that creek bank 
drifted back to Hamilton and Jefferson 
and Franklin, the founders of the repub- 
lic. The bull-heads in the water seemed 
to know that the major was weighing 
heavier subjects and they waited before 
sampling the worm on his hook. 

Still another page of history was 
turned back in the big book. Frederick 
the Great marched again into Silesia. 
Time moved on with quick feet and the 
French revolutionists cut off the heads 
of the Bourbons. Napoleon came upon 
the scene and stabled his horses in every 
capital in Europe. The editor joined in 
with the major and between them they 
carried the great little Corsican from 
the Bridge of Lodi to St. Helena. 

There came a bull-head and grabbed 
the worm on the editor's hook. A jerk, 
and the bull-head was flapping on the 
bank, but perilously close to the water. 
The fish slipped the hook and the major 
dropped his pole and pipe and clapped 
his hat down on that twisting fish as a 
boy traps a bumble bee. It was great 
work and quick as when a cat catches a 

And the little old creek slipped along 
in the sunlight. The fishermen could 
hear the water lapping the bank. 

The World Forgetting 

The major is assistant United States 
attorney for this state, and accounted 
the noblest and best Roman of them all. 
But the other day, down on Lynn Creek, 
he was only a man in a flannel shirt who 
sat in the forks of a big tree and 'fished 
earnestly for bull-heads and talked in 
retrospective fashion about old statesmen 
and coon dogs and grape-vines and mul- 
berry trees and why some blackbirds had 
a red feather in their wings. 

The major had brought his brown 
shaggy dog along on the trip. This dog 
came and sat by his master and watched 
his master's cork. The cork shivered 
and moved erratically. The dog barked 
and trembled with excitement. The 
major's cup ran over with happiness. 
This was a prince among dogs. The 



major missed his fish in pride of his 
dog's interest and understanding. 

The afternoon wore on and the bull- 
heads grew shy and more shy of the ma- 
jor's bait. Then did he shift from milk 
worms to crawfish tails and caught a 
likely fish instanter. 

The sun dropped a foot or two. The 
voices of the world seemed far away. 
The major, as he sat and watched his 
cork and admired his dog, might have 
been an Indian chief of the Shawnees 
who flourished here before the white 
men came. No chief who ever stole a 
pony or made a squaw dig a garden 
fished so wholeheartedly as did the 

At this time came the story of Car- 
thage. Few people know that Carthage 
is the oldest settlement in this part of 
the state, but the major, who keeps as 
close tab on the country as he does on 
the town, knows it, and he told about it 
the other day on the banks of Lynn 
Creek, while his brown shaggy dog 
watched his cork for him. 

Beauregard had not yet made up his 
mind to fire on Fort Sumter in those 
days of which the major spoke. And 
Carthage flourished as did its namesake 
of old when Cato used to worry the 
Roman senate about the threatening as- 
pect of its greatness. 

There was a well in the center of 
Carthage, U.S.A., also a blacksmith 
shop, a store, and a few houses. Then, 
one day, a horse fell into that well. The 
good people of Carthage counseled to- 
gether what to do, remove the horse or 
fill the well. They filled the well, and 

Carthage was destroyed, destroyed as 
completely as its namesake on the Afri- 
can coastline of the Mediterranean Sea. 
A country road and an apple orchard 
now hide the new Carthage as effectual- 
ly as do the sands of the desert and the 
shadows of Rome's ancient wrath hide 
Carthage of old. Ill-fated town of a 
new world to bear such an unlucky name 
and to have a citizen who owned such 
an unlucky horse! 

The story ended about the time the 
major's cork went down, and no one 
had time to sigh for the vanished glories 
of any Carthage. The major landed 
his fish, looked at the setting sun, sighed, 
and prepared to go. 

We drove home in the early twilight 
and the brown dog made friends with 
every big and savage dbg on the way 
and whipped every little and fretful dog. 
The major gloated over the intelligence 
of a dog that knew enough to sit still on 
a creek bank and watch a cork and bark 
when the fish bite well. 

It was a great day. Anyone who is 
lucky enough to win the major's favor 
can go to Lynn Creek with him and 
see table rock, and eat Aunt Sally's old 
Kentucky dinner, and see the plum blos- 
soms, and hear the water sing its eternal 
song among the shallows, and grow 
young again while the major catches 
bull-head fish and talks philosophy as old 
as the stars as he sits on the banks of 
the creek discovered by Colonel Lynn, 
of old Kentucky. 

And, in addition to all this, he may 
be favored enough of the gods to win 
the friendship of the shaggy brown dog. 

WAR BAGS is what Mr. A. W. Warwick calls his 
article in the June OUTING on a new device for 
packing your personal outfit on camping and tramping 
trips. It is the result of his personal experience. 



Showing that the Deliberate Wrecking of Ships Is Not so Rare a 
Crime as Has Been Claimed 

N October, 1909, the New York 
power yacht Senta, Captain John 
Albert Fish, owner, was burned to 
the water's edge in Long Island 
Sound, off New London. She was 
^* insured for $15,000, and the un- 
derwriters paid up without complaint. 

Why should they complain? Captain 
Fish was ostensibly a yachtsman and a 
gentleman, and credited with an honora- 
ble career. He had taken part in the 
Matabele war, fought under Lord Rob- 
erts in the Transvaal, helped defend La- 
dysmith, and been of the force that re- 
lieved beleaguered Mafeking. He had 
received a Victoria Jubilee medal for dis- 
tinguished service, sailed the seven seas 
in ships of all kinds, written insurance 
on his own hook in New York. It was 
not for the underwriters to be sus- 

So Captain Fish, being an ardent 
yachtsman and not wanting to be out of 
the game any longer than necessary, im- 
mediately bought from one Thomas 
Sloane of East Orange, N. J., a some- 
what larger auxiliary schooner yacht, 
paying for her just $1,500 in coin of the 

Exactly a year lat£r the Senta II was 
destroyed by fire in the harbor of Ed- 
gartown, Martha's Vineyard. An oil 
heater was responsible for the mischief, 
said Captain Fish, and he dared not 
fight the fire because of the large amount 
of gasoline on board. Moreover, the 
fire occurred at a very inconvenient 
time, in the middle of the night, with a 
number of guests aboard. It looked as 
though Captain Fish was running in ex- 
tremely bad luck. 

But some of the guests were unkind 
enough to recall that the explosion of the 
oil heater had followed the alarm. And 

just before, as it happened, Captain 
Fish's automobile had gone up in smoke 
too, and for it he had been paid $3,500 
insurance, though the car had not been 
an expensive one. 

Thereupon the District Attorney be- 
gan to prick up his ears. As a result 
Captain John Albert Fish, rolling-stone 
and soldier of fortune, instead of being 
paid his $15,000 insurance on the luck- 
less Senta II, was placed on trial in the 
United States District Court in Boston 
in December, 1913. As a further result 
a jury convicted him on January 21, 
1914, though his lawyer promptly ap- 
pealed the case and Fish was released 
on $10,000 bail. 

The offense charged against Captain 
Fish was not arson ; it was barratry, — a 
word which is Greek to an astonishingly 
large number of intelligent people. 

Barratry has been called the rarest of 
crimes. The mariner's profession, there- 
fore, would seem to be the most scrupu- 
lous of all callings. His healthy, clean, 
open-air existence, statistics seem to 
agree, conduces to a wholesome view of 
life and consequent upright living. 

It is a pretty fancy, this of an Utopia 
'twixt azure sky and crystal surges. It 
is a shame to shatter it. But the plain 
truth is that barratry is the rarest of 
crimes only because it is the hardest of 
detection. The blackguard who decides 
to make away with a ship or her cargo at 
the expense of the underwriters doesn't 
labor under the disadvantages of his 
brother malefactor, who touches off his 
house with oil-soaked rags. 

On the high seas there is no block-to- 
block surveillance by the police. There 
need be no disconcerting witnesses or in- 
criminating accessories to pop up and 
spoil carefully rehearsed testimony. 




There must be at most only a satisfied 
crew, and often the skipper can get away 
with it alone. Nothing is easier, for 
proof consult Robert Louis Stevenson. 
There is little doubt that numbers of 
vessels are wrecked deliberately each 
year. There is no denying that there 
are many shipmasters afloat who would, 
like Kipling's Sir Anthony Gloster, 
"run her or open the bilge-cocks, exactly 
as they are told." 

But failing to prove it the underwrit- 
ers must pay up, suspicious or not. Their 
only satisfaction may be that of the com- 
pany which, as it paid a policy on an old 
hooker strangely cast away two days af- 
ter she was insured, grimly asked "Why 
this delay?" Just how seriously the 
crime of barratry is regarded is shown 
by the penalty -for it prescribed by the 
Federal statutes: "Imprisonment for 
life or any term of years." 

Off the Course That's All 

Barratry at its best is a fine art. A 
friend of the writer could unfold' an in- 
stance of it, which would be likely to 
start underwriters' eyes star-like from 
their spheres, up-end locks a la fretful 
porcupine, and all the rest of it. But 
there would be little use in it all. The 
underwriters found nothing tangible 
against the owners of the vessel, and 
paid w T ith as good grace as do any of 
their ilk who accept marine risks and 
lose. The writer's friend has got over 
the mortification of being called a good- 
for-nothing lubber. He has recovered 
from his impotent rage at being made 
the scapegoat. For it all happened 
thirty years ago. 

To-day the writer's friend is a Boston 
business man. At that time, before this 
country had lost its enthusiasm for 
things nautical, he was cooling his ad- 
venturous young blood with a berth as 
able seaman aboard a trim little Ameri- 
can bark. The bark was fully insured. 
They were running eastward in Long 
Island Sound one fine, clear, moonlight 
night. With a part cargo of coal aboard 
as ballast they were bound from New 
York for Boston, where they would load 
lumber for South America. It was the 
mate's watch. The writer's friend was 

at the wheel. He was carefully steering 
the course given him by the skipper. 

As time went on the course began to 
look queer to the young helmsman. He 
confided as much to the mate, who called 
the seaman a meddlesome young cub. 
The young cub insisted that the course 
wasn't right. The mate said reluctantly 
that he'd speak to the skipper about it. 
He went below, spoke to the skipper, 
and stayed below speaking to the skip- 
per, — and then the bark piled up on 
Sow and Pigs Reef at the entrance to 
Vineyard Sound and was totally lost. 

It was all perfectly plain ; a* stupid 
seaman had balled up the course and run 
her ashore. Very deplorable, of course; 
a fine little vessel, and all that, but one 
of the fortunes of seafaring; and there 
you are. The writer could give names 
and dates, but he would only bring a li- 
bel suit about his ears. In the courts 
everything was settled in shipshape fash- 
ion years since. So what would be the 
use of stirring it up again? 

This was barratry at its best, but as 
few equally skilful and successful jobs 
become positively known, the innermost 
intricacies of their consummation can 
seldom be described. Instead the annals 
of the American merchant marine hold 
only the details of a few bungling at- 
tempts of the commission of the rarest 

The case of the little coasting 
schooner E. H. Pray, of Pembroke, Me., 
was a famous one, but one remarkable 
for its stupidity; the more so as the per- 
petrator was suspected, like Captain 
Fish, of having been a professional bar- 
rator. The late Mr.' John F. Baxter, of 
the Baxter Wrecking Company, of New 
York, first saw the dismasted schooner 
afloat in the North River and sent a tug 
out to her. A wrecking pump was put 
aboard, and she was run ashore and 
partly freed of water. 

Then it was found that holes had 
been chopped in her deck, and that her 
sides and bottom were bored full of au- 
ger holes. Her name and official num- 
ber had been removed, and for some 
time her identity was a mystery. Finally 
an und'uly talkative person turned up 
in the person of a disgruntled cook. It 
developed that Captain Melvin Clark, 



who was also her owner, had brought 
her out from Maine with a cargo of 
lime; bought a worthless old schooner, 
the Guide, and transferred the Fray's 
fittings and gear into her. 

One dark night they had scuttled the 
Pray in the Hudson, cargo and all. But 
the lime casks burst, the lime slacked, 
and the Pray came to the surface. At 
that the artful skipper abandoned the 
Guide and fled for parts unknown. The 
authorities never got him, and he is said 
to have died in the West lately. 

Before his death he saw the error of 
his ways. Back in Kittery, Me., where 
his deserted wife lived, the natives still 
chuckle over the only letter she got from 
him, and which became public property. 
It ran: "I would give half what I'm 
worth to see you again, and the other 
half to know why you were fool enough 
to marry me." All of which the prospec- 
tive barrator may reflect upon. 

The master of the steamship General 
Meade, of the old Merchants' Line, no 
doubt thought himself a marvel of cun- 
ning and sagacity. At any rate his mode 
of operation was a little unusual. The 
Meade, bound from New Orleans to 
New York with a cargo of cotton, 
stranded on a Florida reef. A bargain 
was made with the wreckers, and after 
the Meade had been lightered of some 
of her cargo she came off the rocks. So 
little was she damaged that she pro- 
ceeded to New York under her own 
steam, the skipper perhaps expecting to 
be commended for his skill in saving the 
big craft at all. 

However, it happened that her own- 
ers had thought there was little excuse 
for her going ashore in the first place, 
still less for the expensive contract with 
the salvors. When the Meade reached 
port Mr. Frederick Baker, her agent 
and a member of the famous firm of 
William F. Weld & Co., boarded her 
just as the master was getting ready to 
go ashore. Once there the astute agent 
lured the captain to his stateroom, locked 
the door, and frightened him into dis- 
gorging several thousand dollars, his 
share of the job from the wreckers. The 
captain had planned to make a prompt 
getaway, letting the job "go hang." 

Unfortunately the burden of his ras- 

cality fell upon the underwriters even 
then. There was no proof that the skip- 
per had run his vessel ashore intention- 
ally, much less of criminal collusion with 
the wreckers. The latter argued that 
there was nothing wrong in giving the 
captain a commission, and their heavy 
claim for salvage was eventually recog- 

There are few people who have not 
heard of the case of the American brig 
Marie Celeste, which in 1872 was inex- 
plicably abandoned in calm weather off 
the Azores by a crew never after heard 
from. Few, however, know that she 
ended her career many years later at the 
hands of the barrator. 

Last Days of the Marie Celeste 

On her last voyage she cleared from 
Boston for Port au Prince, Hayti, osten- 
sibly with a cargo of valuable general 
merchandise, insured for $30,000. When 
within a few miles of her destination 
she went ashore near Miragoane and 
became a total w 7 reck. Her captain, Par- 
ker, promptly sold the cargo, sight un- 
seen, to American Consul Mitchell, for 
$500. Mitchell saved it at some trouble, 
but lived to wish he hadn't. 

The weak line in this chain of knav- 
ery w T as the testimony of one of the sea- 
men. He sw r ore that he was steering a 
safe course when the captain ordered 
him deliberately to head for the rocks. 
The master's bribe of liquor failed to 
close his mouth ; indeed caused the 
w 7 hole scheme to collapse. 

When the underwriters' agent arrived 
on the scene to investigate, he found sev- 
eral funny things about the cargo. One 
case shipped as cutlery and insured for 
$1,000 contained dog collars worth $50. 
Barrels supposed to contain expensive 
liquors were full of worthless dregs, a 
consignment of salt fish insured $5,000 
was rotten, and other articles mentioned 
in the bill of lading proved to be in keep- 

Consul Mitchell, not only duped, but 
outlawed, stood not on the order of his 
going, but cleared out for the tall tim- 
ber. The captain of the brig was tried 
in the United States District Court in 
Boston, convicted and sentenced to a 



long term in prison, where he died three 
months later. The various shippers were 
adjudged guilty of conspiracy, and one 
of them, unable to bear the disgrace, 
committed suicide. 

The man who commanded the bark 
L. E. Cann was a wily rascal, for he 
chose to abandon his vessel off Cape 
Hatteras. That dread headland' is the 
undoing of more good ships in a year 
than any other on the coast, and the sin- 
ister propensities of tide and wind off its 
hungry sands have frightened crews of 
better vessels than the Cann. When the 
captain and crew reached shore in small 
boats they reported that the bark had 
sprung a leak and foundered at sea while 
bound from a Central American port to 
New York w T ith a cargo of coffee in her 

But the faux pas in this conspiracy 
was that the captain miscalculated the 
specific gravity of hay and shavings; for 
the coffee bags were found to be full 
of these valuable commodities when the 
waterlogged derelict, with her bottom 
full of auger holes, was picked up and 
towed into Hampton Roads some time 
later. Had the master stopped to re- 
flect that his cargo would have made 
a better bonfire than ballast, all would 
have been well. 

Not Well Enough Wrecked 

A man who thought his share of the 
swag hadn't been big enough made 
ducks and drakes of the brilliant scheme 
of a trio of confidence-men who not 
long ago reached a southern port in a 
dinghy and announced that their craft, 
the schooner yacht Calliope, had sunk 
sixty miles off Frying Pan Shoal, N. C, 
in a heavy gale. The unsuspecting un- 
derwriters dutifully paid up, but re- 
gretted it a short time later when the 
third member of the "shipwrecked" 
crew reappeared and intimated that 
there might have been something shady 
in the affair. An investigation showed 
the Calliope hauled up in a creek in 
Albemarle Sound. Just so near had 
she come to meeting an honorable and 
tragic end off-soundings. Incidentally, 
the yacht, like Captain Fish's two un- 
fortunate craft, was insured for the 

modest sum of $15,000, while a third 
as much had bought her. 

The Gloucester fishing schooner Twi- 
light, bound home with a cargo of fish 
from Bay of St. Lawrence waters, sank 
suddenly off Beaver Harbor, Nova 
Scotia. Not until some time later, when 
she was raised, contrary to expectation, 
was it found that she had been scuttled 
by a rascally captain. Luckily the dis- 
covery was made before the insurance 
company paid over the $3,000 policy, 
which it may be safely assumed' was her 
full value. The Twilight lived long 
after this affair, and a few years ago, 
while in the coasting trade, sank with 
all hands in the course of a thirty-mile 
trip in the Bay of Fundy. 

Another instance of the rarest crime 
in the Gloucester fleet was that fur- 
nished by the fishing schooner Pocum- 
tuck. She stranded near Ship Harbor, 
Nova Scotia, and was abandoned to the 
underwriters. They condemned' her and 
authorized the skipper to act as their 
agent and sell her on the spot for what- 
ever he could get. The bereaved mas- 
ter, however, pocketed the small re- 
ceipts of the sale and made himself 
scarce. From that it was an easy step 
to the discovery that she had been run 
ashore purposely. The vessel was in- 
sured for $2,652, while her value was 
given as $3,000; but there are few so 
unsophiscated as to believe that those 
concerned expected to lose $348 in the 
wreck of the Pocumtuck. 

Some five years ago the little schooner 
Fortuna, a Maine coast packet, was 
wrecked off Portland Harbor, her crew 
reaching port in the yawl-boat. They 
told a harrowing tale of hardship 
brought on by the Fortuna's stranding 
on a jagged reef while running in for 
shelter, and indeed the story seemed a 
perfectly reasonable one. 

But there was one untoward occur- 
rence, and the least of its results was 
that it blasted the skipper's hopes. Sev- 
eral weeks later the hull of the For- 
tuna, which her master had fondly be- 
lieved was safely ballasted on the bottom 
of Casco Bay by her heavy load of dry 
fish, drifted ashore on Cape Cod', over 
a hundred miles away. Her cargo had 
worked out of the hold, the schooner had 



come to the surface, and there was the 
usual discovery — her bottom was full 
of auger-holes. 

But in case the regulation auger-hole, 
torch, and ran - her - ashore - purposely 
types of barratry begin to pall, there's 
another less hazardous and more gentle- 
manly kind. The trouble with this 
brand is that it takes a good while to 
get rich out of it, but for the skipper 
who doesn't care to take too big chances 
it is highly recommended. Be it known 
that barratry includes every breach of 
trust committed by a shipmaster. 

Not a hundred years ago the three- 
masted schooner Ellen M. Mitchell — 
she's wrecked now and her skipper is 
afloat in another craft — arrived ofr 
Portsmouth Harbor, N. H., with her 
headsails blown away. An obliging tug- 
boat, and the writer was a guest aboard 
at the time, pulled her into port for the 
reasonable sum of $5. 

"Receipt me a little bill for fifty, will 
you, Cap ?" asked the schooner man with 
a wink. 

"I ain't doin' business that way," said 
the tug captain virtuously. 


AST December we gave a recipe 
for cooking beans at home and tak- 
ing them so prepared in advance into the 
woods or on that fishing trip. A reader 
in Pittsburgh, Mr. James K. Bakewell, 
has tried the plan and has this to say of 
his experiments: 

"In making the experiments twenty 
ounces of baked pork and beans without 
tomato sauce were dried for twelve 
hours in a warm oven, with the door 
open to prevent cooking. This removed 
the moisture but not the grease, and the 
beans were thoroughly stirred and al- 
lowed to stand in the pantry for thirty- 
six hours, at the end of which time they 
were dry and hard and ready for use. 
But, to make the test more perfect, they 
were allowed to remain in the food-bag 
for four days. This drying reduced the 
bulk of the beans nearly one-half 
and the weight from twenty to eight 

"These dried cooked beans may be 

prepared for the table as follows: Place 
a half pint of the dried beans in the 
middle of an eighteen-inch square of 
cheese cloth, gather up the corners and 
intervening loops and tie with a piece of 
white string, thus forming a bag much 
too large for the beans. Place the bag 
of beans in a vessel of warm water and 
allow them to soak for half an hour or 

"Remove the bag from the water, 
drop it into a kettle of boiling water and 
allow the beans to boil in the bag for 
ten minutes; but the water should be 
well salted, to restore the salt removed 
by the soaking. Take the bag from the 
kettle, open the bag and serve the beans. 
Or, if baked beans are desired, place the 
beans with a couple of pieces of boiled 
pork or bacon and a little hot water in 
a pan and bake until brown. The beans 
should retain their shape, and I have 
found them equal to if not better than 
beans taken directly from the can." 



A Sad Tale of a Tenderfoot and the Humble but by No Means 

Insignificant Fly 

HE next time any one 
comes to me and says: 
"Bill, I know a place 
where there's speckled 
trout so thick they'll 
wear you out taking them 
off the hook — a place where it's cool 
and where you can sleep at night 
far from the madding throng," I'm 
going to make business for the man 
who owns the glass carriage that usually 
heads the procession and goes slow. I'm 
going to demonstrate the process of self- 
elimination as it can be demonstrated by 
a man in earnest. 

I had one of those alluring tales whis- 
pered in my ear during the season past — 
whispered at a time when the city was 
hot and the air sticky and humid and 
every one was sweltering in the fearful 
heat. "Pudge" Hobson sang this siren 
song to me, and "Pudge" and I don't 
speak now. If I ever get the opportu- 
nity, I'll kill him yet. He came into 
my office that afternoon and talked 
something like this: 

"Bill, you owe it to yourself and to 
your family to take a rest. While the 
wife and the kiddies are down at At- 
lantic City, let's you and I take a little 
run up to the north shore of Lake Su- 
perior. We'll go to Duluth, take a boat 
out of there, and hit it up the Brule. 
You know the signs you always see in 
summer, 'It's Cool in Duluth!' Well, 
that's so, Bill. And furthermore, there's 
trout in the Brule River, like there ain't 
anywhere else in the world. 

"Bob Galloway and Hank Orbison 
have just come back and Hank told me 
they caught up to the limit the law al- 
lowed each day, and caught 'em by ten 
o'clock in the morning. We'll get a camp 
outfit and a guide in Duluth and for 


two weeks we'll just lay round camp and 
fish and smoke our pipes, and rest and 
read magazines and come back here feel- 
ing like different men. This town's too 
infernal hot for any man with moral 
tendencies. Let's go up where there's 
almost frost at night." 

That's the tale this brute sang into 
my receptful ear. And I, untutored in 
the woods, listened. 

"Pudge," I said, "I couldn't catch a 
fish in a sack, even if it was in a pan 
and poured out. I was never introduced 
to a fish in my life except at the butcher 
shop. I wouldn't know the manner of 
approach among strange fish. I wouldn't 
know what to say, much less what to 

"Leave that to me," Pudge replied. 
"I'll teach you. I'll take you to where 
there's the best fishing on the known 

Of course, I went. I locked my desk, 
took my two weeks off, — the two I was 
to have for vacation, and "Pudge" and 
I climbed in a sleeper that started for 
the "head o' the lakes." 

"Aha! Fie on thee, O busy Care!" I 
exulted as we drew away from the lights 
of the cityr. "Swelter, you slaves!" I 
shouted gleefully as we passed the pump- 
ing station by the reservoir. 

"O Lordy! O whitened sin!" I think 
now as I reflect upon those exultations. 
"O idiot that I was! O 'Pudge'!" 

Every time I let my thoughts return 
to that trip, I want to murder some 
one in cold blood. Mind you, what hap- 
pened up on the Brule isn't Pudge's fault. 
Let me say right here and now in open 
meeting— let me rise like a fully ac- 
credited delegate from the Ninth Ward 
with a large white badge on my coat 
lapel — let me rise and pay my respects to 



the Brule. It is a great fishing stream; 
it is so full of trout that on good days it 
keeps you busy taking them off the hooks, 
or flies, and it probably does afford as 
wonderful trout fishing as any stream 
in America. 

But — and I say it with full knowledge 
whereof I speak. But! there are other 
things on the Brule which I am going 
to tell about, but which "Pudge" didn't 
mention to me. If he had, I probably 
wouldn't have been so wild to get there 
and eventually so wild to get away. But 
to continue my story: 

"Pudge" and I got our camp outfit and 
a guide in Duluth — a half-breed Chip- 
pewa named "Jim." He claimed to know 
all the good trout holes on the map, and, 
to tell the truth, he did. "Jim" agreed 
to take us to the places where the trout 
held mass meetings, introduce us to the 
most promising and influential leaders, 
and assist in the massacre, for $2.50 a 
day. So we took him on. "Pudge" had 
a note to the general manager of the 
steamboat line, who agreed to stop the 
ship at the mouth of the Brule to allow 
us to get off, and we left the Zenith 
City at ten o'clock in the morning. A 
cool wind was blowing over the great 
lake and we sat for'rd to enjoy its fresh- 
ness and mutually feel sorry for the fel- 
lers plugging away back home. We got 
into camp by night, stretched our tent, 
and had a good dinner cooked by our 
guide. Afterwards, we built a strong 
fire and sat around to smoke. 

O! those were glorious hours! It was 
the first time I had felt cool and con- 
tented and tired in a month. We let 
"Jim" fill us up with wonderful stories 
of life in the Minnesota and Wisconsin 
woods, and sat and talked till eleven 
o'clock. The fire was burning low. The 
night birds and the night noises were 
lulling us into a state of drowsiness. The 
little waterfalls in the Brule at our 
feet sang songs of adventure that was 
to come and the night wind sighing 
through the pine trees made us glad of 
the peacefulness. 

"Jim" broke the silence: 

"Bring any ile?" he asked. 

"I never drink," I replied firmly. 

"No! no!" he urged. "Ile for mos- 
quitoes and No-seeums." 

I looked at "Pudge" blankly. I thought 
we had bought all of Duluth when we 
finished paying the bill for outfitting. 
But I guess we hadn't. "Pudge" didn't 
know anything about "ile" for mos- 
quitoes and to buy any sort of a present 
for such a pest was something entirely 
beyond my usual manner of procedure. 

"But," I began wondering, "what 
are these 'No-seeums' that Jim speaks 
about?" I had never heard of such 
reptiles or animals, or whatever they 
were, before. So I turned to our guide 
and remarked: 

"Jim, what kind of 'ile' do you usually 
bring mosquitoes, and what is a No- 
seeum r 

The Chippewa looked disgusted. I 
had tried to keep him from discerning 
that I was not an old timer in the woods, 
that I didn't know all about nimrodding 
and Izaak Waltoning and other out- 
door hardships. But I was willing to 
concede ignorance of mosquito "ile" and 
of No-seeums. 

"Ile keep away 'skeeters an' No- 
seeums,' " Jim replied. 

"But what's a 'No-seeum?' " 

"You find out 'morrow mornin'." 

I know now what a "No-seeum" is. 
I learned up there on the Brule. I be- 
came a sort of packing-house product 
for them. I've tried to find out some- 
thing about No-seeums in the books 
since I came home. The scientists who 
are up on bugs say that a fly is "a two- 
winged insect of many species" ; that a 
flea is "a small blood-sucking insect of 
the genus Pulex, remarkable for its agil- 
ity and irritating bite" ; that a mosquito 
is "an insect of the genus Culex, the 
females of which puncture the skin of 
men and animals, causing great cutaneous 
irritation and pain" ; that a gnat is "a 
small stinging winged insect of several 
species, allied to the mosquito" ; that a 
tick is a "parasite that infests dogs, sheep 
and one species attacks men." But no- 
where do the books tell of the No-seeums. 
Hence, this definition now to be given 
cannot be disputed authoritatively: 

"A No-seeum is a species of guerrilla 
gnat having two stingers in each foot 
and nine in the head. It carries in its 
flight a poisoned stiletto and a two- 
tined fork with which it attacks anything 



that moves, doing great execution. A 
No-seeum is carnivorous, devoid of 
morals, and frequently is consigned to 
a hotter world than this by irate fisher- 
men. But it has never gone." 

That gives some idea of what a No- 
seeum is. You couldn't send through 
the mails what the fishermen think they 
are. Such language has no place in 
print. I remember full well that morn- 
ing up on the Brule when I met up with 
my first one. I was rigging up my new 
nine-dollar fishing pole when something 
kicked me just beneath the left eye. A 
bump came up immediately. 

"Pudge!" I called, "either somebody 
kicked me in the face or else I've been 

Pudge came to my side and started to 
look at the wound when he suddenly 
ducked his head and staggered back- 

"What'd you do that for?" he asked, 
turning red in the face. 

"Do what?" 

"Stick me with your knife!" 

"I didn't touch you, sir. I wouldn't 
strike a friend, especially with one of my 
lamps going to the bad." 

"Well, look at my forehead. I guess 
that bump just took root and came up 
like a mushroom, all of its own accord, 

"Honest, Pudge, I didn't touch you. 
I had called to you to come look at me 
when " 

I clapped my left hand onto my right, 
dropping my nine-dollar fishpole, reel 
and all, and wheeled around to glare at 
Jim. The halfbreed was cleaning up 
the breakfast dishes, his hands immersed 
in a pan of water. I knew he couldn't 
have thrown anything at us. A grin 
was on his face, however, and we sus- 
pected him. 

"Jim," I said gravely, "I can enjoy a 
practical joke as well as anyone and 
I'll stand for anything within the bounds 
of reason. But if I catch you up to any 
more of your medicine-man tricks, I'll 
throw you in the river." 

" 'Smatter with eye?" Jim asked, 
looking at my swollen optic. 

"That's what I say," I retorted. 
"What is the matter? Did you throw 

"Huh! No!" Jim replied. "No- 
seeum git yo'." 

The truth was out. Running loose, 
right there in those woods were some 
sort of flying devils, armed with forks, 
sabres, stilettos and cutlasses, and war 
had been declared. 

"How can you tell when they're go- 
ing to call?" I asked of Jim. 

"Feel 'em." 

"Don't they say anything, send in a 
card, remark about the weather, or do 
anything of that sort? How can you 
tell 'em when you see 'em?" 

"No-seeum," said Jim bluntly. 

We stood there blindly fighting imag- 
inary spots in the air. Every now and 
then Pudge would let out a howl and 
clap a hand to some part of his head or 
start suddenly rubbing his wrist. It all 
became ludicrous. By the time the sun 
was up good and warm, we were leaning 
up against trees, our hands in our pockets 
to keep them from being eaten off or 
stung off, whichever the No-seeums were 
up to. 

"I dare you," I said to "Pudge," "to 
take your hands out of your pockets and 
go fishing." 

"You go to Texas!" Pudge replied 
hotly. "I'd give a twenty dollar bill for a 
bottle of that 'ile' Jim tells about." 

The half-breed was still grinning. 

The No-seeums apparently looked on 
him as a hardened character, because they 
didn't seem to bother about him at all. 
Suddenly Pudge shouted': 

"Bring the gun! Quick!" 

"What is it?" we asked breathlessly. 

"I just saw mine! I hit at 'im but 
missed, and he's dancin' away there just 
out o' my reach." 

A respite from the bandits came a 
little while later and we got to the river 
to fish. The trout were literally eating 
the flies alive, too, that morning. Yet, 
for every strike we got from a trout, we 
received two kicks or bites or stings from 
the No-seeums, and I never spent a more 
miserable, perspiring forenoon in all my 
life. Along about sundown that evening, 
the No-seeums withdrew for rest. Un- 
questionably, they had put in a hard day. 
Then Pudge and I surveyed each other. 
His face looked as though it had been 
painted, then put up by the fire to dry, as 



it was all puffed out in spots. He said 
I looked like a punctured pneumatic tire. 

But there we were, up against it. I 
have never taken a vacation in a nest of 
hornets, but if anyone gives me the 
choice of them or the No-seeums, the 
hornets for mine! There is this advan- 
tage, that no self-respecting hornet will 
come and insert his stinger in your cuti- 
cle, causing that "cutaneous irritation" 
the bug-men tell about, without letting 
himself be seen. He isn't that kind of a 
bee. We were wondering what we 
should do to relieve the situation, when 
Jim said : 

"Me make ile 'morrow mornin' dat 
keep away No-seeums. Yo' go sleep an' 
no worry." 

Honest, we wanted to fall on his neck. 
Any man who could make an "ile" that 
would keep those marauders off of us, 
was entitled to first prize, or else the gold 
watch or sack of flour. The pleasure 
of having some annointment on us that 
was too much for the No-seeums w T ould 
be worth any kind of money. We slept 
that night with all the confidence in the 
world in Wonderful Jim — our guide. 

Early next morning, before time for 
the bugs to be moving, I got out and 
walked up the river about a mile. I 
wanted to feel the dew on the grass 
and I wanted the air to cool my puckered 
face. I wanted to meditate upon what a 
good time I was having. I thought of 
Bob Galloway and Hank Orbison back 
at home, probably spending their eve- 
nings at Munchauenhausen's garden 
with mugs of that beverage which has 
foam on top, sitting before them, while a 
band played and cabaret dancers made 
merry. Then I thought of myself up on 
the Brule with a half-breed Chippewa, 
Pudge Hobson, and the No-seeums. I 
sat down at the side of a little waterfall 
and watched the trout leap for flies. 

It was glorious there in the early 
a. m., before the No-seeums got to work. 
I hated to go back to camp, but an in- 
nate habit of eating food acquired in 
the early part of my life drove me back. 
I loitered on the way, picking wild ber- 
ries and watching the squirrels jump 
about in the trees. About a quarter of 
a mile from the tent, I met Pudge com- 
ing after me. I noticed that his face 

and hands were covered with a yellow T - 
ish substance of some kind, and I re- 
marked : 

"Got some arnica?" 

"Arnica, nothin'!" Pudge replied. 
"That's some of Jim's 'ile.' " 

He came closer and' I got a smell of 
something that was awful. Pudge be- 
ing to the windward, I instantly sur- 
mised that the smell came from him 
and from the stuff Jim had smeared 
on him. I've smelled glue factories 
when the weather was hot, have sniffed 
limburger when it seemed at the point 
of disintegration, and have been near 
escaping acetylene gas, but those odors 
were as fragrance from lilies of the valley 
compared with what Jim had handed 
to Pud'ge. 

"Go way!" I yelled. "Go bury your- 
self! Go fall in the lake! Jim's put 
up an aw T ful trick on you." 

"No, no," Pudge expostulated, fol- 
lowing me toward camp. "That's the 
stuff that keeps the No-seeums away." 

"They got nothing on me," I replied. 
"It'll keep me away, too. Until you 
go wash, don't come near me." 

As I entered camp, Jim started toward 
me with an empty can and a swab made 
from a stick and a piece of cheesecloth. 
I grabbed up a stick of wood and 

"You just dare poke that swab at 
me and I'll break every bone in your 
head," I essayed. "I got a wife and 
family back East and I want to go home 
some time. If I went back with that 
smell fastened to me, they wouldn't let 
me in." 

"It wear off," Jim assured me. 

"Not off of me, it won't," I retorted, 
"cause you're not going to get it on 

And he didn't. All that day I fought 
No-seeums while Pudge went about with 
his odor and was not molested. I noticed 
at dinnertime, however, that Pudge 
was a little pale around the ears and' he 
remarked that he guessed he'd not put 
any more on next morning. 

I promptly offered prayer. 

That night I took a blanket and slept 
out on the ground to be away from 
Pudge, and next morning I caught a 
boat back to Duluth. Pudge came on in 



the afternoon after the tent was packed. 
We paid Jim for full two weeks' work 
and went to a doctor for a prescription. 
The medical man wouldn't let Jim 
come in, but I got the recipe for insect 
bites while Pudge got a bath. On the 
way home I told' him of the delightful 
time I'd had on the vacation trip he 
planned for me and of how I hoped to 
be able to do as much for him some 
day. Pudge got peeved and we hardly 
spoke to each other by the time we got 

back home. I haven't seen him since. 
We found the fishing on the Brule all 
it was said to be. There's trout there 
till you can't rest. And anyone who is 
curious can go find No-seeums in the 
same locality. Other fellers have been 
there who were not bothered at all. It 
may be that we got there on Home- 
coming Week or while a national cam- 
paign was on, but at any rate we got 
there when the No-seeums were not 
away on visits. 



Camp-Fires Are Made of Wood, and the Woods Are Full of It, 
but There Are Ways and Ways of Gathering It 

™INDINGfirewood for wood fires 
in the wooden woods would 
=^ seem to be a simple matter. Yet 
only last summer a party made 
up of university professors sent 
an embassy of two in a canoe, 
through the rain, across three-quarters of 
a mile of northwoods lake to the land- 
ing of The Man from Tennessee to 
negotiate for fuel. 

He admits that he thought they were 
kidding him, and declares that his small 
son, sent to the cabin for his gun, was 
half-way back before he realized that 
they were in earnest. In all gravity, 
avers this transplanted mountaineer, 
these collegians explained to him that the 
timber where they were camped had been 
wet by the rain and that, unless he 
should confer some dry wood from his 
shed upon them they were like to suffer 
both cold and hunger. 

Personally, I believe every word of 
this story, for I've seen some few ex- 
amples of how foolish folks can act about 
wood myself. More than once I've 
watched some man born, raised, and 
grown gray in the woods shoulder a five- 
pound, double-bit ax and go surging 
through the underbrush in quest of a 
suitable stub on which to display his 
prowess — and I've kindled a fire, got the 

pot boiling, and laid by enough wood to 
get breakfast from the lot he broke off 
and trampled into convenient lengths on 
his way. Were it not that I don't wish 
to seem to exaggerate I would say that 
they have "busted off" enough for a 
lunch fire also, but desiring to keep strict- 
ly within the facts, I'll merely play the 
bet for supper and breakfast. 

Then, on the other hand, there's a 
camp site across the river from the shack 
where transient Indians have played 
one-night stands since time out of mem- 
ory, where they camp yet, on the average 
of one party a week while the canoeing 
lasts. There is at least one fire to each 
of these encampments. 

Yet from no single one of them have I 
ever heard the unmistakable whang of an 
ax cleaving wood. The squaws go out 
and get it with their hands — and they 
don't wear gloves to do it, either. 

The female of the Ojibway species 
may be neither lovely to look upon nor 
brilliant in conversation, but as a hewer 
of wood, with the hewing left out, she 
is absolutely and entirely there. 

Rotten pine logs, so soft they disinte- 
grate at the kick of a moccasined toe, 
yield her fat pine knots, fair nuggets of 
resin. She shoves over the popple sap- 
lings which have been drying since Wau- 



bose, the rabbit, girdled them during 
last winter's starving time, and breaks 
them across her knee. She can spot the 
dead branch hanging low on the spruce 
or jack-pine, and kept dry in the wettest 
rain by the living branches above it, as 
far as the average tenderfoot can see the 
tree. She knows that any progressive 
alder clump produces a half-dozen fin- 
ished sticks of dry firewood a season. 
She's onto the virtues of birch bark for 
kindling like a boy scout. And she's a 
willing worker when it comes to drag- 
ging windfalls and driftwood to where 
they can furnish a solid night fire. 

"Squaw wood" the progressive lumber 
jack who essays the role of a guide in the 
summer-time calls her plunder in high 
disdain. And the trustful tenderfoot, 
who regards him as a sort of cross be- 
tween the late esteemed Nathaniel 
Bumpo and the well-known D. Boone, 
likewise snorts, spits on his hands, and 
slams his ax against a rock. 

Much has been written, sometimes in 
prose and sometimes in rhyme, and al- 
ways knee-deep in sweet, sticky senti- 
ment, about The Woodsman's Ax. But 
the fact remains that the durned thing 
weighs from two to six pounds all the 
time, raises blisters most of the time, and 
lops off a foot or two once in so often. 

It is a vital article of equipment for 
the man who must chop new portages 
across virgin country in summer or pro- 
vide chunks for the camp stove in win- 
ter. But in a country of trails, in the 
summer-time, a little study of "squaw 
wood" will enable one to eke out a fairly 
comfortable existence without it. 

Unlike a stove, and the habitual ax- 
man always thinks in terms of "stove 
lengths," a camp-fire is not particular 
about the size or shape of the wood it 
burns. Anything light and loose enough 
to handle and dry enough to burn im- 
presses it as fuel. 

With the brittle sticks which can be 
broken across the knee for the cooking 
flame almost every camper is familiar. 

Nor are those slightly heavier pieces 
which must be "busted over a rock" 
strangers to ordinary camp routine. 

But the cooking fire is only the begin- 
ning of the possibilities of "squaw 
wood." Drag in two wind-felled logs, 
logs as heavy as two men can handle, 
and cross them over the cooking fire 
when supper is done. By the time the 
dishes are washed the fire will have cut 
them into four logs. Cross these four 
logs over the fire, and by the time the 
good-night pipes are smoked they have 
become eight heavy chunks. And eight 
heavy chunks, stacked on the coals, will 
cast a warm glow into the opened tent- 
front all night and leave enough embers 
to kindle the breakfast fire. 

Not all windfalls can .be handled thus. 
Some, like one which figured through 
three days of a November camp in the 
snow, can only be handled to where one 
end rests in the fire and must be pulled 
farther in as that burns off. In fact, so 
wide a field for the exercise of judgment 
and ingenuity does reliance on "squaw 
wood" afford that its use might almost be 
classed as a sport by itself. 

The habit of using "squaw wood" is 
one which grows. Or rather, one who- 
practises it at all so rapidly develops skill 
in discovering wood which requires no 
modification by the ax that he quickly, 
though imperceptibly, loses interest in 
that tool. 

First he leaves it sticking in a stump. 
Next he neglects to take its muzzle off. 
Finally, he leaves it at home, along with 
the cook stove, and goes rambling off 
through a snowstorm to camp with his 
pack lighter by the difference in weight 
between a one-pound tomahawk and a 
five-pound ax. He'll use the tomahawk 
to carve the bacon, blaze trails, drive 
tent-pegs, cut pot-hangers, and dismount 
his gun. 

But when he wants fuel for his fire 
he'll stretch out his bare hands and take 
what he needs from the forest's bounty of 
"squaw wood." 

Early in June England and America meet again in polo. 
Read the June OUTING and you will find an answer 
to the question, What makes polo the greatest game of all? 



Illustrated with Photographs 

VI7E have published many articles dealing with the art of out- 
* * door photography. We have presented many photographs 
showing what can be done. If our luck holds we expect to publish 
many more. But we would call especial attention to the article 
which follows. It is the work of a man who is at once an amateur 
with pen and camera. This is.said in a spirit of highest praise for 
the world holds no more admirable person than the gifted amateur. 
Mr. Holland approached the game first from the standpoint of 
the sportsman. His first hunting was with the gun, and he is still 
far from being a deserter from the ranks of the devotees of the 
double barrel. But he has found a pleasure in the camera like none 
that comes to him from the gun. The two games supplement each 
other — save that that of the camera is a much more difficult art. 

^ HERE are no game laws 
for the man that hunts 
with a kodak. Most of 
us have read this several 
times in our lives, and 
those of us who always 
read the advertisement section of the 
magazines before we undertake the 
magazine proper have become very fam- 
iliar with it indeed. This is meant 
solely to catch the eye of the big-game 
hunter, and we always associate it with 
such. The first thing most people think 
of when wild game photography is men- 
tioned is an inquisitive looking deer with 
ears cocked forward toward the camera, 
standing out in bold relief against an 
inky black background. There may also 
be a few pure white tree trunks in the 
picture, but for that matter the deer in 
these pictures generally has white antlers, 
so why not white brush, trees, and 

Haven't we all read about the flash- 
light game until we feel thoroughly com- 
petent to go out with flash gun and 
jacklight and do the trick ourselves? 


In all big game photography the trick 
is to find the game, then get close 
enough to take the picture. The taking 
of the picture itself is a minor detail. 
But when a man goes out to take pic- 
tures of birds, especially on the wing, 
he will find that the difficult part is not 
to find the birds but the taking of the 
picture. And as for getting your sub- 
ject close, you have the big game cam- 
era hunter shoved clear off the map. 
You must have Mr. Bird where you can 
almost reach out and touch him if you 
want a real good picture. 

Most any duck-hunter would be glad 
to take you and your camera along on a 
duck hunt where the ducks are thick. 
You can sit and watch them go by flock 
after flock. They are in range for the 
shotgun, for your friend is killing them, 
but they are too far for you! If they 
are thirty yards or over they will only 
make specks on your film, so you might 
as well hold your fire. Then when you 
have about decided to risk a long shot 
anyway, a flock of spoonbills will whip 
by you out over the weeds, scarcely fifty 



feet away, and a pair of 
mallards trailing them will 
nearly knock your head off. 
You shoot with your noise- 
less gun, and wonder all the rest of the 
day if the speed of the shutter was cor- 
rect, if the focus was right, and finally 
if you hit them. 

Only a direct view finder will do you 
any good at this game. You haven't 
time to look down into anything to see 
if your machine is steered straight. It 
takes all the eyes you have with you 
to see those ducks through the direct 
finder as they whiz by you. Perhaps 
they are traveling a hundred miles an 
hour. That isn't so fast when you are 
a spectator from a hundred yards dis- 
tance, but when a duck passes close to 
you, going his best, you realize what 
speed is. 

All such matters as focus must be at- 
tended to before your ducks show up. 
Set your focus for forty or fifty feet or 
closer, and if the ducks don't fly right 
for you, that is your 
misfortune. You can't 
change your focus at the 
last minute, because your 
game will not wait for 
you. As for shutter 
speed, the faster the bet- 
ter. It reminds one of 
the old duck-hunter who 
advised the beginner "to shoot ahead of 
'em ; if you miss 'em, shoot farther ahead 
of 'em; if you still fail to connect, shoot 
still farther ahead of 'em." That's the 
way with the shutter business. It must 
be fast, the faster the better. 

I believe it is impossible to get any 
results with a shutter that works slower 
than 1/300 of a second. And at this 
speed a duck would have to be going 
very slow or the wings would be sure 
to blur. The shutter that I have had 
the best success with works up to 1/2000 
of a second and I have taken good sharp 
pictures with it wound up to the last 
notch. However, this speed, unless the 
light is very strong, will always give 
thin negatives, and I find it more satis- 
factory to work at between 1/1000 and 
1/1500 of a second on ducks and geese 
and bird's that attain a high rate of 
speed. Of course the diaphragm must 

Photograph by Robert Rockwell 

be wide open or nearly so on all speed 

Regarding lenses, any standard make 
will do ; nearly every crank swears by 
one particular kind, in which case the 
others are nil. I have this failing my- 
self. Necessarily the lens must be fast 
or it would be useless with a high speed 
shutter. One thing the bird-hunter 
must make up his mind to is that he 
will develop many and many a negative 
that will go direct to the waste-basket. 
But when he gets something, he is sure 
to have something that the other fellow 
would like to have. That's the reason 
it's so much fun, so seldom is it that 
you get a good one. 

This isn't the first time the camera 
has broken into the duck-hunting game, 
we all know that. Who hasn't seen the 
picture of some noble hunter with dead 
ducks hung all over him, his trusty 

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weapon in his right hand, while the left 
supports more dead ducks or maybe a 
goose. These fellows generally have a 
grin on their faces that would do credit 
to the proverbial Cheshire. Occasion- 
ally one of these pictures slips by and 
gets into print under the title of ''The 
AUTHOR and his day's bag." Can 
the camera be put to a worse use than 
in photographing several dozen dead 
ducks, quail, or grouse, strung on the 
person of the butcher himself? 

Even the camera fiend whose hobby is 
landscape and scenery must admit that 
a touch of life adds to any picture. 
Then why not, when next you take a 
pretty water scene, arrange w T ith a flock 
of ducks or even a pair, so that they 
appear in the foreground of the picture? 
Try it and see how much it adds to the 
already beautiful picture. Is there a 
man living who can let a flock of ducks 
or geese pass over him in flight, with- 
out stopping and' watching them on their 
way ? When a bunch of waterfowl 
spring from a roadside pond, is it the 
ducks you see or the cat-tails and rushes 
reflected in the splashing water? 
Whether you are a hunter or not you 
can't help w-atching the ducks as they 
circle off, absolutely blind to the most 
beautiful of scenery that may be be- 
neath them. It's the same way with the 
photographs. Your friends will see the 

game first no matter how pretty the pic- 
ture as a whole may be. 

Should you intend to take up speed 
photography, gulls or pigeons make the 
finest kind of practice material, gulls 
especially as you also will get pictures 
worth saving, where in the case of the 
pigeons it is practice pure and simple — 
learning your machine and to hit your 
game. If you have an ocean handy, go 
down along the surf and shoot gulls to 
your hearts content. You can often 
walk within five or ten paces of them 
before they fly. Then the singles 
trading back and forth will often pass 
directly over you not twenty feet dis- 

After you have become proficient on 
the gulls, speed up your shutter and go 
after the ducks. Don't forget that the 
ducks will travel a great deal faster 
than the gulls, and that you must be 
absolutely hidden or they will not come 
near you. When they do come right, 
shoot at them. Do not be discouraged 
if when you develop you have nothing. 
It is like most everything else in this 
world', the old game of solitaire not ex- 
cluded ; if you keep trying you will win. 

When it comes to taking pictures of 
ducks sitting still on the water, I can 
not tell you much about it. I have tried 
it often enough but have only one really 
good picture to show for my trouble. 



This though I am sure of: When you 
become proficient enough at sneaking to 
slip up on ducks or geese, in water open 
enough to photograph them, you are a 
past master at the art. When you can 
do that you can go up in the north 
woods, and slip up on deer and hogtie 
them before they know you are around. 
I am not talking about tame wild ducks 
in preserves, but the real out-and-out 
wild duck. He can not smell you, but 
the chances are he will see or hear you. 
Then again it is only once in a hundred 
times he will light where it is possible 

to take his picture. When the chance 
comes, go for it for all you're worth. 
One morning I saw a white fronted 
goose light in a river slough. Knowing 
every inch of the slough bank, I de- 
cided that this was an opportunity to 
take Mr. Goose with the camera, in 
place of the shotgun. After about fif- 
teen minutes of the most careful crawl- 
ing, which seemed like an hour, I 
reached the edge of the high bank with 
no brush between me and my game. 
Do not think I mean the "hands and 
knees" variety of crawling, far from it. 




What I had to do was to get down flat 
and "snake" it up to the edge. On 
the trip I passed several little depres- 
sions that might have been termed damp. 
To things like this you must do as 
the old dark)- said, "pay no mind." I 
was all set and just ready to shoot when 
with a splash three mallards, two hens 
and a drake, lit right down in front of 
me. There was no skill about this, just 

little birds she will hatch out of them. 
Get a long release cord for your camera, 
so that you will be able to shoot from 
some distance away from the nest. 

In addition to this get a black box 
that somewhat resembles your machine. 
With this box get your bird accustomed 
to seeing the camera around near the 
nest, moving it closer and closer until 
you get it as close as you think neces- 


plain luck. They looked carefully 
around to see if everything was all right 
and started to swim upstream toward 
the goose. As I pressed the trigger, I 
saw the feather rise on the back of the 
old drake's neck for he had seen me, 
and the next second they were all above 
the threetops. Little did he realize that 
he had moved too late, for I had potted 
all four of them with one shot. 

Another game you can play with the 
camera and the birds, is to photograph 
setting birds while on the nest. This, 
while a great deal easier, is very inter- 
esting and a great many valuable pic- 
tures can be obtained. One should al- 
ways go about this carefully so as not 
to annoy the old bird too much, or you 
might cause her to desert her nest and 
eggs. If you are careful though you 
should have no fear, for you will find 
that the mother bird thinks almost as 
much of those eggs as she will of the 

sary. Spread the brush away from the 
front of the nest in order to secure an 
unobstructed view, change your box for 
your camera, and all you have to do is 
to wait somewhere in the brush near 
by for the old bird to return to her 
nest; then press the button. Of course 
w T hen you pull the brush from around 
the nest you will frighten the bird 
away, but I have seen birds that would 
allow T you to get your machine, after the 
picture had been taken, without leaving 
the nest. 

When you have graduated from all 
the above then go out and try to photo- 
graph some member of the heron or 
crane family without the use of the 
nest. The best picture I ever saw of 
this kind was taken by Mr. Robert B. 
Rockwell of Denver, Colo., and is pro- 
duced herewith (page 193). Those 
who are familiar with the herons and 
cranes know that of all the birds these 



are perhaps the hardest to approach. 
Therefore this picture of the great blue 
heron is a masterpiece. These birds are 
often very methodical in their habits. 
For instance if they are feeding in a 
certain river slough, they will have a 
certain place where they will invariably 
light when first coming in from a dis- 
tant flight. Or if they have a nest near 
by, they will always light some distance 
away before going to the nest. 

The thing to do is to locate this spot 
as nearly as possible and then work the 
black box scheme, leaving it around for 
days until your quarry becomes accus- 
tomed to seeing it. When you think the 
time is ripe, trade your camera for the 
box and be sure your string and your- 

most your own distance, and many beau- 
tiful pictures can be obtained, snowing 
the bird houses with the martins 
perched on top while others are hover- 
ing around. On these birds you can cut 
your stop down and make longer ex- 
posures, getting wonderful detail, for 
pictures of birds in flight. 

Should you ever take up this game, 
you will soon become a faithful con- 
vert. It is interesting. The camera 
will show you many things that the eye 
cannot see. Most of us think we have 
pretty good eyesight, but if we were 
told that a duck's wing in flight moved 
so fast we could not see it, we would 
immediately ask for proof. The camera 
will give this proof. Watch a flock of 


self are well hidden, before Mr. Heron 
shows up. Then be quiet, do not even 
bat an eye, for you can gamble he will 
see you if such a thing is possible. Per- 
sonally I have never photographed any 
of these birds while they were at rest, 
but Mr. Rockwell has the proof that it 
can be done. 

Another place where you can use your 
speed camera to good advantage is 
around a colony of purple martins. 
These birds will allow you to get al- 

teal, blue bills, or any fast flying ducks, 
and you will swear that their wings are 
almost stationary, seeming only to flutter 
or vibrate at the tips. At best we can 
see only a half stroke. Photograph this 
same flock of ducks and you will find 
one duck with his wings all but touching 
beneath his body, while perhaps the first 
duck in the flock ahead of him will have 
both wings straight up, parallel above 
him. Another will have one wing 
straight up and the other straight down, 



flying, you might say, on his side with 
his breast toward you. No matter how 
good your eyesight you can not see these 

There is no better time than the pres- 
ent spring to try this new game of speed 
photography. Since Uncle Sam has de- 
cided to protect all migratory birds on 
their spring migrations, we will find the 
marsh that once accommodated a dozen 
or more guns free to the camera hunter. 
In place of the sharp crack of nitro 
powder, our ducks this year will be met 
only with the click of the shutter, to 

remind them that man is still after them. 
Undoubtedly the presence of the camera 
man on the marsh will help enforce the 
law, for it's going to be a big job. Were 
the marsh deserted entirely, some nat- 
ural born lawbreaker would slip out and 
shoot a time or two, and maybe get 
away with it a time or two. The pro- 
tection of the ducks and geese on their 
northern journey is one of the biggest 
jobs Uncle Sam ever tackled, but we be- 
lieve, and sincerely hope, that our Uncle 
is big enough for the job that he has 
taken on his shoulders. 


IT is out of the experience of many 
men that the great art of angling 
has been developed to its present pitch. 
And the developing process is not yet 
finished. Every now and then some 
new tip comes drifting in from the 
outer world to which this magazine 

For example, Mr. W. R. Wilmot, of 
Detroit, sends us this bit of informa- 
tion which should be welcomed by the 
many fishermen to whom the catching 
of bait is the most toilsome and least 
agreeable part of the fishing trip. We 
give it in his own words. 

"I went spearing one night with a 
party of four and found we could get 
only one boat. We had a couple of 
small incandescent flashlights with us 
and two of the party took the boat and 
went spearing while the other two of 
us walked down to the bank of the lake 

and discovered that by holding the flash- 
light directly on one spot on the water 
and throwing small pebbles in about the 
center of where the light hit the water, 
minnows of all sizes congregated there. 
"In fact, by leaving it there for a 
very few minutes, and at intervals 
throwing in the pebbles, the larger min- 
nows would come in to drive out the 
smaller ones. It looked as though they 
thought there was something to eat. 
Since that time we have never had any 
trouble in getting minnows in the even- 
ing in a very few minutes. Take a net 
anywhere along the bank of the lake, 
drop it in, and hold the spotlight in the 
center of it, and throw the pebbles in 
as mentioned before, and you will be 
able to get a bucketful at any time, 
which, as you know, is a mighty diffi- 
cult thing to do at times on most any 



Photographs by the Author 

A Method of Circumventing the Finical Midsummer Trout 
without Violating the Sacred Angling Conventions 

ID you ever go trout fish- 
ing along toward the last 
of July or the first of 
August, when those hot, 
enervating, lifeless days 
arrive, "Dog Days" I 
think they call them, and trout refuse to 
rise to the fuzzy wuzzy lures, no matter 
how adroitly handled? No? "You 
never went fly-fishing without securing 
a catch?" Well, I can only say without 
intent to insult, that you are a better 
fisherman or a greater liar than I, and 
I am something of both. 

I have more than a modicum of skill 
with the fly-tying implements and fly- 
rods, yet I have seen days when trout 
absolutely refused to rise to my lures. 
Perhaps conditions are otherwise in 
broad and deep wilderness streams, but 
in our much fished brooklets when "Dog 
Days" arrive and streams dwindle to 
mere threads of liquid silver, trout be- 
come unimaginably wary, fleeing for 
shelter to overhanging bank and deep 
pool at the first sound of approaching 
feet. If one succeeds in reaching the 
stream's bank without alarming this shy- 
est of all shy fish, the midsummer trout, 
he will see them lying in the shallows, 
heads pointed upstream, almost motion- 
less, perhaps dreaming. Attempt to cast 
a fly and at the first shadow of ap- 
proaching lure, presto, the open water is 

Last August I was fishing one of the 
most famed streams in the Middle West, 
for a generation the mecca of fly-fisher- 
men. Some evil genius timed my visit 
so that I reached the stream, as my friend 


Pat would say, "At the height of low 
water." Trout were there, plenty of 
them; great lusty fellows, but rise they 
would not. Some forty rods or so from 
our tent was a broad and deep pool with 
white sand shallows at the upper end. 
Time and again I crawled through the 
grass and peeped out, always I would 
see three great fish, great for that stream, 
lying just above the deep water. To 
cast, standing so near the water's edge 
was of course to frighten the fish, but it 
made no difference if I cast from a dis- 
tance, the result was the same — a silent 
retreat upon the part of the fish. 

One day, having wormed my way to 
a vantage-point from w T hich I could 
watch the pool, I lay and waited for the 
particular fly to happen along, for I have 
always held that if trout do not take 
what the fisherman offers it is because he 
does not offer what they will take. While 
I waited, a grasshopper, one of those me- 
dium-sized, red-legged fellows, came ad- 
venturing through the grass, evidently to 
investigate my motionless hand. Watch- 
ing him out of the tail of my eye, while 
my attention was fixed upon the surface 
of the pool, I said to myself, "If that 
hoppergrass comes within reach of my 
fingers, I'll snap him into kingdom 
come." So I doubled my business finger 
and continued to wait. 

That small cousin of the mule did 
come within snapping distance and I let 
loose the finger that knows how to send 
a carrom ring five times across the board. 
Plump into the pool went Mr. Grass- 
hopper. More trout than I supposed 
the whole stream sheltered went after 




that luck. g nast and for a few 

onds the surface of the water was a 
moil and turmoil of expectant and dis- 
appointed fish. I held the key of the 

For years I have been a lover of 'hop- 
per fishing, and have had many a bitter 
quarrel over its _ rimacy with purist 
fly artists. I knew just what I wai 
in the way of tackle and hurried back to 
camp. I selected my lightest rod. a 
three and a half ounce fain- wand, and 
an aluminum reel. My line was a r eg 
lation double tapered enameled, to the 
end of which I fastened a three foot 
leader and Xo. b sprout hook. N 
came the hunt for the right grasshoppers 
for bait. 

Now I am particular as to what sort 
of grasshopper I use. believing that the 
trout are more particular. I have found, 
when it comes to trout fishing, that not 
all grasshoppers that hop are 'hop 
During my entomological days in col- 
lege I learned that most of our g 
hoppers were true locusts, and when I 
use 'hoppers for trout bait, it is a locust 
and not a grasshopper that turns the 

trick. I pass by the green, soft-bodied 
insects, true grasshoppers: also I never 
look a second time at the great, dry- 
winged brown fellows, locusts, but 
a medium-sized, moist brown-bodied fel- 
low, almost luscious in appearance, that I 
select. Those particular 'hoppers are 
common, only desire a supply and they 
are uncommonly hard to get. At least 
ured an even dozen, foolish to set 
out with less, which I confined in my 
drinking cup for want of a better recep- 
tacle, and made my way back toward the 

When within extreme casting distance 
I paused to bait up. I thrust the hook 
through the in :?late" and up 

out of the head, so pinning head to body 
it were. 'The hook's barb holds 
better in the head than elsewhf 
^ itb so willowy a rod, built for em- 
power, a long throw is an easy matter. 
I sent the hopper through the air. stand- 

a so that I cast with the wind. 
"Blump!" "Bang!'' In grasshopper fish- 
ing as in fly angling, the cast and strike 
must be closely related, or nine times 
out of ten the result will be the same. 




One can not well strike too soon when 
trout are feeding on 'hoppers. 

It is not my purpose to tell you of 
that first battle, it would be impossible to 
do it justice. Once the fish was hooked 
I walked boldly up to the pool and 
played him where I could observe his 
every rush and cute scheme. My capture 
happened to be a rainbow, a more re- 
sourceful fish than our native charr, but 
backed up by the perfect action of my 
rod I was able to vanquish him in due 
time, a pound and a half fish. I was 
morally certain it was not the large fish 
I had seen "sunning" himself, but of 
course the fishing was off for the time, 
so far as that particular pool was con- 

Shouting to my daughter, who had 




given up trout fishing in disgust, to try 
the pool with 'hoppers after it had 
"rested," I set out down-stream. 

In fishing with grasshoppers I much 
prefer to fish down-stream whether fol- 
lowing the bank or wading; somehow 
I can give the insect a more natural mo- 
tion when the 'hopper is going away 
from me, than I can when it is approach- 
ing, as is the case if one fishes upstream. 
Another point in favor of down-stream 
fishing is that one can make his way 
more quietly than when fighting the cur- 
rent, no mean advantage when trout are 
shy. As to which of the two methods 
to follow, bank or stream fishing, the 
character of the particular creek must 
determine, but always the secret of suc- 
cess is care, quietness, and skill. Do 
not for a moment think there 
is little skill required in 'hop- 
per fishing, you can employ 
all the finesse of the accom- 
plished fly fisher and then 

Where the current sets 
back under overhanging wil- 
lows or alders, your trout- 
sense informs you that the 
ceaseless action of the water 
has mined out no inconsider- 
able hole, the home of many 
a fine fish. The question is 
how to attract the attention 
of those mighty leviathans 
with your grasshopper, an 
animated floating fly. 'Hop- 
per fishing as I practise it is 
always surface fishing; no 
shotted and sunken bait for 
me. When I come to such 
a place as I have described I 
often toss my 'hopper upon 
the brush just above the pool 
and wait until all disturb- 
ance of the water is over, 
then gently twitch the 'hop- 
per to the surface. The rise 
is instant and fierce. The 
fish must be pulled from his 
refuge at once by sheer 
strength of rod, or else the 
battle will not be to the 

If you think good tackle 
and good judgment are not 



required for such practises, you have 
another think coming. 

The same tactics can be employed in 
meadow fishing. Instead of casting into 
the water, just cast upon the far bank 
and wait until the fish have forgotten all 
about the shadow of the line, then gently 
pull the grasshopper into the water and 
see what happens. The scheme can be 
worked in bank fishing as well, just 
cast clean across the stream. 

Upon the particular day of which I 
write, a strange and amusing thing hap- 
pened. I had reached a place where the 
stream spread out and made its rather 
sluggish way through a bit of marshland, 
the rank grasses, golden rods and black- 
eyed susans standing well above my head 
on either bank. Thinking that the bend 
below offered a pretty good opportunity 
for fly fishing, I stuck my rod under my 
arm and opened my fly book to select 
a fly, allowing the 'hopper to float away 
upon the current. While studying the 
pages of my "Essay on Silence," a trout 
darted out from beneath the downhang- 
ing grass and swallowed the 'hopper. 
A more surprised disciple of Father 
Izaak never creeled an adventitious fish. 

In due time I found myself with ten 
trout, all of them good ones, and as ten 
was my limit for a day's fishing, per- 
force shouldered my rod and made my 
way campward, quite certain that my 
daughter would have one of those trout 
from the first pool, but I was not alto- 
gether prepared for what I found. She 
not only had the daddy of those first 
trout, a speckled monster, but fifteen 
fine fish taken from pools above and be- 
low ! Verily grasshopper fishing for 
trout is a success when wet fly, dry fly 
and deepfy sunken fly fails. 

Just a concluding word regarding out- 
fit. I carried my bait in a collapsible 
cup because I did not have a more con- 
venient receptacle with me; but there 
are many better contrivances for that 
especial purpose. Probably the best is 
what is known as the "hopper-coop," a 
simple tin box with sliding cover. I 
have one and could not ask for a better, 
were it not made of metal — metal draws 
the sun, therefore the insects die 

One can make a good "hopper-coop" 
out of an ordinary cigar box, one that is 
handy and will keep the 'hoppers alive 




for some time. The bags with a wire 
gauze bottom are not as convenient as the 
"hopper-coop." Let the tackle be of the 
same quality used in fly fishing, rod as 
light as you dare use, other tackle to pre- 
serve the unities, and you have an out- 
fit of which you need not be ashamed. 

As to the sportsmanship argument, I 
will say nothing, for if you do not agree 
with me, anything I might say would 
not change your opinion a hair's breadth. 
To my way of thinking, the difference 
between a sportsman and a plugger is 
something deeper and finer than a mere 
matter of feathers or 'hoppers. I have 
seen pluggers fishing with flies, and I 
have seen true sportsmen using so un- 
orthodox a bait as worms. You can not 

convince me that light tackle and grass- 
hoppers for bait transform me into 
a plugger. Many the "whale" I have 
lured from the stream whose every rapid 
and pool is as familiar ground to me as 
is the main street of my home city. 

If the water is low and the trout ap- 
parently few as well as impossibly shy, 
try 'hopper fishing with your expert fly 
tackle, employing all the skill and finesse 
of which you are capable; see if it will 
not return "net results" and discover for 
yourself that one may handle bait with 
fly-fishing tools as though it were not 
bait. That is the secret of successful 
'hopper fishing, handling the 
insects as though they were 
expensive of English dry flies. 

the most 


Photo by J. F. Lloyd, N. Y. 


IF the office worker can't go to the 
traps then the traps must come to 
the worker. That is the reasoning 
that is behind the plan to conduct trap 
shooting on the roof of the Grand Cen- 
tral Palace, twelve stories above the 
street, in the center of New York City. 
The plan was tried first during the re- 
cent Sportsman's Show and was a com- 
plete success. On one day over a hun- 
dred separate shooters competed and over 
fifty thousand birds were broken during 
the week. Then, the reasoning ran, if 
they will do this for a week, why not 
for a month, a year? So a permanent 
open club has been established where 
anyone may find admission for a nominal 

fee with the customary charges for birds 
and ammunition. A sheet steel back- 
ground has been set up to catch the shot 
and stop the unbroken birds. Groups 
of shooters who wish to reserve the traps 
for certain hours will have that privi- 
lege and it is expected that inter-club 
shoots will be arranged with this roof- 
top serving as neutral grounds. Certain 
times will be set apart for beginners who 
wish instruction and professionals will be 
on hand to teach the inside arts of the 
game. The whole effort is to place trap- 
shooting as close as possible to the 
shooter. The situation is comparable to 
that of a billiard-room, used for an hour 
or two of relaxation in the afternoon. 



Something About All Sorts of Things from Tents for Moun- 
taineers to Fly Dope 

\ — — 1|— =^ ents for Mountaineer- 
ing. — To my mind the 
Hudson Bay pattern is 
best. It is easier to set 
up than other kinds of 
enclosed tents, since it re- 
quires less pegs in proportion to size. 
When supported by a rope stretched 
from tree to tree, its ridge does not sag 
like that of an A tent. Where poles 
must be used to support it they need 
not be long nor straight. It can be 
warmed by a fire in front, or be closed 
securely against insects, smoke, and dri- 
ving storms. It is staunch in a blow, 
no matter how the wind whips around. 
It sheds snow better than most forms of 
tents. Finally, this is the lightest of all 
enclosed tents of a given size and ma- 

Map Cases. — Large-scale maps, such 
as the U. S. Geological Survey's topo- 
graphical sheets, must be cut up into sec- 
tions, and either mounted on cloth in 
such way as to fold without breaking, 
or left separate and numbered. If 
mounted, the map is soon soiled. It is 
likely to be ruined if you open it in a 
rainstorm, which may be the very time 
when you will need it most. Anyway, 
the humid air of the wilds is apt to 
loosen the map from its cloth backing. 

A better way is to use what the 
French call a liseur de cartes, such as is 
issued to army officers. There are many 
models and sizes, from the simplest to 
quite elaborate ones, but all are alike in 
principle. The one shown in the ac- 
companying illustration measures 16x24 
cm. (about 6^x9^4' inches) and retails 
at six francs ($1.20). It consists of a 



rear pocket roomy 
enough to contain 
many map sections, 
and one in front, 
faced with transpar- 
ent celluloid, for the 
particular section in 
use at the time. In 
this way there is no 
risk of the map being 
soiled, or torn, or 
blown away, or in- 
jured by rain. The 
celluloid front is ruled in little squares 
of 12 mm., by which distances can be 
read according to the scale of the map. 
I presume similar map cases are used 
in our army. They would be conven- 
ient for sportsmen and explorers; but 
none of our outfitters lists them. For 
us, of course, the squares should be 
ruled in fractions (say quarters) of an 

Edible Wild Plants. — Some of my 
correspondence is amusing. A nature 
student, having read the chapter on 
"Edible Plants of the Wilderness," in 
my "Camping and Woodcraft," wrote to 
inquire whether I "had any personal ex- 
perience in eating any of these plants." 
How he could suspect I had not is hard 
to imagine, unless he was misled by my 
citations of authorities here and there, 
and inferred that the whole thing was 
cribbed. Whenever I make use of other 
people's discoveries or original ideas it 
is a point of honor with me to give credit 
where credit is due (a practice, by the 
way, that some other writers might well 
follow). However, during the many 
years that I have lived in the woods I 




have tested a great variety of wild "roots 
and yarbs" — tried them in my own 
stomach; otherwise I would not have 
written a line on the subject. Here is 
one example, taken from my notebook 
under date of May 10, 1910, at which 
time I was boarding with a native fam- 
ily on upper Deep Creek, Swain Coun- 
ty, North Carolina: 

"Mrs. Barnett to-day cooked us a mess 
of greens of her own picking. It was 
an olla podrida consisting of (1) lamb's 
quarters, (2) poke shoots, (3) sheep sor- 
rel, (4) dock, (5) plantain, (6) young 
tops of "volunteer" potatoes, (7) wild 
mustard, (8) cow pepper. All of these 
ingredients were boiled together in the 
same pot, with a slice of pork, and the 
resulting "wild salat," as she called it, 
was good. This is the first time I ever 
heard of anyone eating potato tops; but 
a hearty trial of them has proved that 
the tops of young Irish potatoes, like the 
young shoots of poke, are wholesome and 
of good flavor, whereas the mature tops 
of both plants are poisonous." 

The plant here named cow pepper re- 
sembles toothwort (Dentaria diphylla), 
but bears a yellow instead of a white 
flower, and develops a "bur." 

Lemonade Tablets. — My reference 
to "Wyeth's lemonade tablets" in 
"Camping and Woodcraft" was an er- 
ror in name. Wyeth does not make 
such a thing. Another firm — the same 
that makes the well-known tabloid tea 
— puts up citric acid in tablet form. 
This is used by travelers where acid 
fruits cannot be obtained. Citric is the 
acid to which lemons and limes owe 
their sourness. It is prepared from them 
by chemical treatment and crystalliza- 
tion. Observe that it is only the con- 
centrated "sour" of the lemon, lacking 
all other flavor. A real lemonade tab- 
let could be prepared by adding a little 
oil of lemon. 

An effervescent drink may be made by 
dissolving citric acid in water, sweeten- 
ing to taste, and then adding sodium bi- 
carbonate (common baking soda) in 
double the weight of the acid ; but this 
partially or wholly neutralizes the acid 
and defeats its purpose, which is to cor- 
rect a too greasy or starchy diet. If one 

can carry fresh lemons or limes, they are 
better than any substitute; but when he 
cannot a vial of the acid crystals or tab- 
loids is a pleasant and wholesome addi- 
tion to the food supply, and it weighs 
next to nothing. 

Fuels. — In enumerating the woods 
that will scarcely burn at all when 
green, I inadvertently omitted basswood, 
cucumber, white pine, black pine, and 
various other pines that have a watery 
sap instead of an oily or resinous sap like 
that of yellow pine. Among the first- 
class fuels I somehow skipped white oak, 
perhaps just because it is so well known 
to everybody. I also failed to note 
white oak as one of the best woods for 
splits to be used in basket making, for 
camp brooms, etc. Select a straight- 
grained sapling, cut in lengths wanted, 
rive these into strips as wide as desired, 
then, with a knife, split these strips bas- 
tard (along the rings of growth) to the 
proper thickness. Of course, this must 
be done in spring or summer, when the 
sap is up. The inner bark of white oak 
makes fair cordage. 

Tea, Coffee, and Tobacco Sub- 
stitutes. — Governor Brown of Geor- 
gia once said that the Confederates, in 
wartime, got more satisfaction out of 
goldenrod flowers than out of any other 
makeshift for coffee. "Take the bloom," 
he directed, "dry it, and boil to an ex- 
tract" (meaning tincture). A favorite 
"tea" was dittany. 

One of my friends in the Smokies, 
who went through this period of storm 
and stress and knows all about its priva- 
tions, assures me that the best substitute 
for smoking tobacco is to go, in winter, 
to one of those white oak trees on which 
the leaves dry tight to the twig without 
falling (there are many such in this re- 
gion), gather the leaves, and smoke 
them. He affirms positively that they 
satisfy one's craving for tobacco. I have 
not tried it. 

Hacks and Blazes. — The age of a 
hack or blaze in a marked tree is deter- 
mined by chopping out a billet of the 
wood containing the mark and counting 
the annular rings of growth from bot- 



torn of scar outward, allowing one year 
for each ring. In counting annular 
growth, some begin with the first soft 
lamina (porous part of year's growth), 
jumping the first hard layer, to the sec- 
ond lamina, and so on. It is more accu- 
rate to count the hard strata, for the 
following reasons: Soft laminae are 
formed in the spring, when the sap is 
rising. If a hack is made at that time 
it may not show until a hard ring forms 
over it the next fall or winter, when the 
sap is down. If the season has been very 
dry, there may be two runs of sap, hence 
a double soft ring that year. A mark 
made in wood when the sap is down 
(after the fall of leaves) can have its 
age determined very positively, but if 
made when the fresh sap is up it may be 
hard to say whether the mark goes 
through that year's growth or only to it. 

On some kinds of trees, if a blaze goes 
through to the sap wood, the scar on the 
bark is hard to identify as an ax mark, 
because the wood, in growing, spreads it. 

The age of an ax mark is hard to de- 
termine in birch, and impossible in 
tupelo or winged elm. 

A blaze on a frozen tree makes a bad 

A mark on the sheltered side of a tree 
does not look nearly so old as one oppo- 
site, because moisture accumulated makes 
the bark rot off from the weather side. 

Blazes on chestnut, tulip poplar, young 
white oak, many locusts, and some other 
trees, are not apt to be permanent be- 
cause these trees shed their bark more or 
less and do not retain marks so w T ell as 
beech, black birch, Spanish oak, moun- 
tain oak, and other close-barked trees. 
Bark that scales does not hold moss. 

Surveyors' Marks. — Surveyors are 
careful to space their marks more uni- 
formly than hunters and trappers and 
loggers. They cut rather square into the 
tree, at right angles, so that the weather 
may not wear away the marks nor the 
tree become diseased and so obliterate 

The old states of the East and South 
were surveyed before there were any 
Government regulations for such work, 
and had methods of their own for mark- 
ing lines and corners, varying from place 

to place. In the rougher regions such 
work was likely to be slipshod. Old-time 
surveyors in the mountains often ran 
lines that were winding, because they had 
no flagmen to keep the line straight. It 
was difficult to keep sight marks. Meas- 
urements often were inaccurate. The 
chain was likely to go too low up a ridge 
and too high in crossing hollows. Mere 
surface surveying was practised over logs, 
rocks, etc. Chains were intentionally 
made over-length to allow for this. 

The practice of measuring by half- 
chains in rough country led to many er- 
rors of counting, by dropping a link, and 
so on. Few of the old surveyors were 
careful about variations of the compass. 
In fact, I have known backwoods survey- 
ors of the present day who were ignorant 
of the change in magnetic meridian. 

Fly Dopes. — Nearly all fly dopes are 
shotgun prescriptions — if one ingredient 
misses, another may hit, is the principle. 
Here is a new one, absolutely unique, 
that I got from a drug manufacturer: 
"If the hands and face are anointed with 
antiseptoil to which a few drops of oil of 
cedar or oil of lavender have been added, 
calcium sulphide, in large doses, being 
taken internally, black flies, gnats, and 
mosquitoes will not prove troublesome." 

Antiseptoil is sold ready-made, but 
there is no secret about its formula: 

Camphor gr. 2/3 

Menthol gr. 2/3 

Carbolic Acid gr. 2/3 

Thymol Iodide gr. 2/3 

With oil tar, cassia and eucalyptus 
q. s., in a purified vegetable oil vehicle. 

This, of course, is a healing applica- 
tion for wounds and inflamed surfaces. 
The cedar or lavender is added because 
insects seek their prey by the sense of 
smell alone, and the oils here mentioned 
are repugnant to them. 

But calcium sulphide internally! Here 
is where novelty roars (nay, smells to 
heaven). This drug is a remedy for va- 
rious ailments ; but the point here is that, 
when taken in full doses, calcium sul- 
phide imparts to the breath, skin, and 
secretions a strong odor of sulphuretted 
hydrogen! It's like eating onions, — 'if 
one fellow in camp uses it, everybody 
must follow suit. 



Follow These Directions and You Can Save Garage Charges and 
Keep Your Car in Good Condition 

=== ^HE modern motor-car is a 
particularly well-designed 
and constructed machine, 
but, like any complicated 
and high-speed mechan- 
ism, it demands a certain 
amount of systematic attention and care 
to keep it in good running condition. To 
neglect the car in any way is certain to 
impair its condition, shorten its period of 
usefulness, and cause a marked deprecia- 
tion in its value. Although the automo- 
bile should be given a thorough examina- 
tion at frequent intervals to determine 
the actual condition of the several parts, 
this periodical attention must necessarily 
be more or less superficial when the car 
is in constant use, and once a year, be- 
fore the touring season opens, the entire 
mechanism should be given a complete 
overhauling. That this annual cleaning 
may be a thorough one, practically the 
entire car must be taken apart, cleaned, 
lubricated, and readjusted. To do this 
in a workmanlike manner requires some 
little time, and the "man on the job" 
must expect to perform a certain amount 
of manual labor, unless the services of a 
handy man are secured. 

It is partly on this account that the 
work of overhauling is generally turned 
over to the garage, yet if the autoist 
elects to do the work himself there is no 
reason why he cannot and do it well, in- 
cidentally saving enough money to buy a 
set of new shoes. Indeed, there is no 
better opportunity for the driver to fa- 
miliarize himself with the many parts 
which enter into the construction of his 
machine, and to a person having a liking 
for machinery the hours devoted to over- 
1 auling will be assuredly time well spent. 


Providing the car has been given ordi- 
nary good care while in use, it should be 
in pretty fair shape, and as there will 
probably be no particular need for ex- 
pert labor, the average man will encoun- 
ter no difficulty in knocking down and 
assembling his machine with his own kit 
of tools. 

To avoid confusion and mixing up of 
the component parts (there are about 
fourteen hundred parts in the modern 
car) the amateur mechanician should un- 
dertake the job in a methodical manner. 
Do not fall into the common error and 
unscrew every convenient bolt and screw 
in sight, but take one unit apart at a 
time. Before beginning work call up 
your merchant and have him bring up 
a number of wooden boxes of various 
sizes. These will be found most con- 
venient for holding the numerous small 
parts as they are taken apart, and there 
should be enough boxes of ample size to 
hold all the parts of each unit separately. 
If this is done it will prevent confusion 
when the car is re-assembled and effect- 
ively obviate the mixing up of bolts and 
screws of one unit with another. For 
the same good reason it is desirable to 
finish cleaning one part before taking 
down the next unit, and the cleaning 
should be thoroughly done, not rushing 
the job "a la contract," but taking plenty 
of time to do everything well. 

Though the principle of construction 
is the same in all cars, there are, however, 
many modifications and variations met 
with in cars of different makes, and the 
exact procedure of "knocking down" and 
assembling varies somewhat in different 
models. It is the mission of this article 
to cover the most important points in a 



general way and if any special informa- 
tion is wanted the autoist should consult 
the instruction-book supplied by the ma- 
ker of his particular car. 

For the sake of convenience, it will be 
well to first remove the body from the 
chassis and support the frame on strong 
horses, or by blocking up if no horses are 
at hand. When the latter method is re- 
sorted to care should be taken that the 
blocking is built up firmly, lest it sud- 
denly collapse and let the frame fall to 
the floor. This may be avoided by ar- 
ranging the blocking in the form of a 
crib or hollow square, by placing two 
blocks on the floor and laying two more 
upon them at right angles, finishing up 
with a couple of smaller blocks at the 

Getting at the Power Plant 

After the body, wheels, and fenders 
have been removed, and the frame is 
propped up solidly at both ends, the 
power plant is naturally the first consid- 
eration. Although one may begin with 
any part of the car, the engine, by rea- 
son of its greater importance, is generally 
the first unit to be attended to. Com- 
mencing with the motor, the first step is 
to strip the engine of lubricator, carbu- 
retor, pump, wiring, spark plugs, inlet 
and exhaust manifolds, magneto, outside 
oil leads, fuel, water-pipes, and their con- 
nections. In taking off the exhaust 
manifold it is unnecessary at this stage 
of the work to remove the exhaust pi- 
ping and muffler. Disconnect and free 
the engine by unscrewing the union at 
the manifeld end. 

In taking apart spark and throttle rods 
and other parts about which some doubt 
may be felt as to their exact relative po- 
sitions, a check mark made with punch 
or file should be made on both parts. 
This is a much surer way than to trust to 
memory, and if this system is followed 
in taking apart the entire car much labor 
will be saved when the work of assem- 
bling is attempted. The magneto should 
be removed from the engine but not ta- 
ken apart. When the motor is complete- 
ly stripped the lower half of the crank- 
case should be removed. 

In the garage, where help is always 

within call, it is the custom with most 
repair men to uncouple the big ends of 
the connecting rods and to lift the pistons 
and cylinders off together. This is not 
practicable in the case of a one-man job, 
as the combined weight of pistons and 
cylinder castings is too much for one man, 
unless a portable hoist or crane is at hand. 
The best way is to remove the holding- 
down bolts which fasten the cylinder to 
the upper half of the crank-case and lift 
the cylinder off the piston. When the 
motor is cast en bloc the weight of the 
casting is considerable and the assistance 
of a helper will be required, or a tackle 
hoist may be rigged to do the trick for 

Most cars nowadays are made with 
cylinders cast separately or in pairs of 
twos and threes, and they may be easily 
lifted by one man standing astride the 
frame. To prevent the possibility of 
straining and springing the crank-shaft 
and connecting rods, the castings should 
be lifted up and pulled off with the pis- 
tons in an upright position. The pistons 
and their connecting rods may then be 
removed by uncoupling the big ends to 
free them from the crank-shaft. Each 
piston should be marked with file or 
punch, that they may be assembled in 
their respective cylinders. This is im- 
portant to observe, otherwise the com- 
pression of your motor will likely fall off 
to a very noticeable extent. 

The cylinders should now be wiped 
clean on the outside and either soaked in 
a bucket of kerosene, or the inlet and 
exhaust ports and spark-plug openings 
plugged with corks or tightly fitted wads 
of waste, and filled with kerosene to 
remove the old oil and soften the carbon 
deposit. If the inside walls are found 
to be badly encrusted with carbon, this 
must be removed, either by scraping or 
by the use of a solvent. A convenient 
tool adapted for this work may be had of 
the dealer, or an improvised tool may be 
made by turning over the end of an old 
half-round file and grinding the edge 
sharp. Many motorists are now using 
one of the several carbon removers so 
largely advertised, and while the writer 
has not given these preparations a thor- 
ough trial, much is said in their favor. 
As is well known, kerosene is a good 



solvent, and will soften and remove all 
ordinary deposits of charred oil. 

This done, the pistons should be ex- 
amined, and if the rings show signs of 
wear they should be replaced with new 
ones. If the rings fit tightly in their 
grooves and the rubbing surfaces are 
smooth and bright, they will probably 
require only a good cleaning. A small 
bristle brush (such as is used in the 
kitchen to scrub vegetables) will come in 
handy for cleaning bolts and screws 
and other small parts. The piston or 
wrist-pin should be examined, and, if 
loose, the set-screw which secures it in 
place should be tightened. If looseness 
is the result of wear, a new piston-pin 
will be necessary. 

It is important that the piston-pin be 
a good tight fit, and as most cars are 
fitted with some kind of an anchoring 
arrangement, trouble of this kind is not 
so prevalent as formerly. A loose pin 
is a source of danger, as it is likely to 
work out beyond the face of the piston 
and so score and cut the soft iron walls 
of the cylinder. 

After the several pistons have been 
thoroughly cleaned and the rings snapped 
back into place, the valves may be at- 
tended to. It will probably be found 
that the valve gear is in good shape, and 
requires only to be cleaned. The en- 
tire valve-operating mechanism may be 
readily removed by unscrewing the plates 
fastened to the upper part of the crank- 
case. Although the large majority of 
American cars make use of the roller 
plunger rod, some few are equipped with 
steel balls, and a very few still cling to 
the older - fashioned solid-steel heads 
working against the steel cam. All of 
the devices seem to perform their func- 
tions remarkably well, and as the balls, 
rollers, and pins are made from special 
hardened steel it is seldom necessary to 
replace them because of wear. 

For valve-grinding one may use any 
of the abrasives put up for this purpose, 
or employ powdered glass, carborundum, 
pumice, or emery as preferred. All are 
in use and give satisfaction ; but what- 
ever grinding medium is selected the 
motorist should make it a point to pro- 
cure only the finest grades. A coarse, 
gritty abrasive is altogether unsuited for 

valve grinding, and it will be found im- 
possible to do a good job with the coarser 
grades. The object of valve grinding is 
primarily to remove the carbon and pit 
marks due to excessive heat, and while 
it is advantageous to first dress off the 
face of a badly pitted valve with a flat 
single-cut file, this preliminary smooth- 
ing up must be followed with the usual 
grinding with emery. 

A valve which has been properly 
ground in will show a bright ring of 
polished steel over the entire bevel face 
and seat, and it should be practically 
free from score marks and scratches. 
High compression can only be secured by 
keeping the valves and their seats clean 
and bright, and in view of its impor- 
tance the motorist should not slight this 
part of the work, but take ample time 
to do it well. To grind in the valves, 
put a little, of the fine emery or other 
abrasive in a tin cover, add a teaspoonful 
or two of kerosene to make a fluid-like 
paste, then add a few drops of heavy 
lubricating oil to give the mixture a lit- 
tle more body and prevent it from run- 
ning too freely. Smear a little of this 
on the bevel face of the valve and also 
on its seat, and rotate the valve by in- 
serting the blade of a screwdriver in the 
slot in the valve-head. 

Grinding the Valves 

A screwdriver having a smooth, round 
handle is preferable, and the grinding is 
most easily done by rotating the handle 
between the palms. That the grinding 
may be uniform, the valve should be 
given a dozen or so turns in one direc- 
tion, then lifted up and rotated in the 
opposite direction, repeating this alter- 
nate grinding and lifting until the sur- 
face of both valve and seat is smooth 
and bright. All the valves should be 
ground in after this manner, and when 
all have been attended to the valves and 
seats should be wiped off with gasoline 
to remove all trace of the grinding com- 

In case the stem of the valve is found 
to be warped or worn thin near the head, 
the damaged valve should be replaced 
with a new one, which must be ground- 
in in the same way as outlined above. 



Valve springs should also be tested and 
replaced where required. The springs 
of the exhaust valves are far more likely 
to lose their elasticity or "set," owing 
to their being subjected to the extreme 
heat of the exploded gases. 

Before the cam-shafts can be taken 
out it will be necessary to remove the 
radiator. This is easily accomplished, 
as it is only necessary to unscrew the 
bolts which fasten it down to the frame. 
It is a good plan to remove the fly-wheel 
also, as the bearings may be more readily 
adjusted if the crank-shaft is free and 
light. The cover which encloses the 
timing gears may now be removed, and 
the cam-shafts taken out of the opening. 
It is the practice of present-day manu- 
facturers to mark the proper meshing 
point of the gears by means of punch 
marks on the crank-shaft, cam-shaft and 
magneto driving gears. 

These meshing points or timing marks 
are sometimes designated by letters, but 
are often indicated by a single punch 
mark, one being on the tooth and the 
other straddling the two teeth in which 
the first should mesh. In case the timing 
is not indicated on the cam-shaft of your 
motor, these check marks should be 
made with a punch before the gears are 
disturbed. If this is done, considerable 
trouble will be saved when the motor is 
assembled, as the timing of the valves 
must be correct if the marked teeth are 
assembled to mesh in the proper indi- 
cated positions. The cam-shafts will 
probably only require cleaning, but in 
the event that the cams are considerably 
worn, a new cam will be needed. If the 
cam-shaft is of the integral type, a new 
piece of metal will have to be welded 
on to build up the damaged part. Re- 
pairs of this nature can only be properly 
made by expert workmen, and the fac- 
tory is the proper place for doing the 
work well. 

Clutches of the multiple-disc design 
may be removed as a unit by simply ta- 
king off the cover of the clutch-case, dis- 
connecting the clamps connecting clutch 
with transmission shaft, and unscrewing 
the bolts fastening the two clutch mem- 
bers. In some cars using clutches of the 
cone type it will be necessary to discon- 
nect the rear dust-pan and remove the 

set-screw which secures the sleeve to the 
universal joint, which may now be 
moved forward. The radius and brake 
rods must also be disconnected, which 
will allow the transmission to be moved 
backwards in its yoke, and the tumble 
shaft will drop out. Drive the univer- 
sal coupling off the clutch hub, detach 
the side links, and remove the ball race 
and clutch spring. The cap screws 
which fasten the clutch ring to the fly- 
wheel are now readily removed, and the 
entire clutch may be taken out. 

In other makes of cars which the wri- 
ter has overhauled the clutch is most 
easily taken down by removing the pedal 
shaft, the central member of the clutch 
coupling, the nuts holding clutch shaft, 
and the spring nuts and springs. The 
exact manner of taking down the clutch 
varies with different cars, but if the 
coupling shaft which connects the clutch 
shifting sleeve is first uncoupled, there 
is generally sufficient room between 
clutch and gear-box to take the clutch 

Making the Clutch Work Better 

In case the leather face of the cone 
clutch is in good condition, with the ex- 
ception that it is worn down so as to ex- 
pose the rivets, much additional service 
may be had by resetting the heads of 
the rivets below the surface. A cone 
clutch which takes hold with a "fierce" 
grip may often be remedied by resetting 
the rivets. If the leather is dry and the 
action harsh, give it a couple of dress- 
ings of castor oil. 

In case the main or crank-shaft bear- 
ings have considerable play, this loose- 
ness must be taken up. In many motors 
this adjustment is effected by means of 
shims or thin strips of metal, which are 
inserted between the bearings to allow 
for natural wear. When adjusting the 
bearings it may be necessary to remove 
one or perhaps two of these shims from 
each side of the bearing. After the 
shims are removed the nuts should be 
tightened, and the bearings will be found 
to fit closer to its shaft. Though a bear- 
ing should fit snugly and without undue 
play, it must not be set up so tight as to 
bind and pinch the shaft, and where the 



metal shims are found too thick to make 
the proper adjustment the insertion of 
paper shims will often do the trick. 

When the center and rear bearings are 
mounted in disks, adjustment is made by 
wedges lying on top of the caps. These 
wedges are provided with two nuts, and 
it is only necessary to turn up the nuts 
until the play or looseness is taken up. 
The crank-pin bearings are generally 
provided with brass or copper shims, and 
one or more may be removed and the 
nuts set up to make a proper fit. Care 
should be taken not to pinch the bear- 
ing, lest the cap be bent and thus bind 
the shaft. 

Owing to the fact that almost all mo- 
tors are provided with annular ball bear- 
ings, it is not likely that the change-speed 
gear will require anything further than 
a thorough cleaning. If the gears are 
found to be badly worn at their edges 
through improper gear shifting, the in- 
jured gears should be replaced with new 
ones ordered from the manufacturer. 
Where the transmission is mounted as 
a separate unit, the removal of the cover 
will expose the mechanism, and the box 
should be raised off and filled with kero- 
sene to remove the old lubricant and 
any grit that may be held in suspension 
in the old oil. 

In the floating type of rear axle— 
which is most widely used in modern 
cars — the differential may be taken down 
without difficulty. After the rear axle 
shaft, hub cap, driving clutch, and 
wheels have been taken off, the axle- 
shafts should be partly withdrawn from 
their protecting tubes. The removal of 
the top case gives access to the differen- 
tial housing cap screws, which hold the 
differential gears in position. Removing 
these screws (generally six in number) 
the bevel driving gear roller bearing 
must be taken out to make room for the 
removal of the assembled differential 
gears. The live rear axle and differen- 
tial gears seldom give trouble if kept 
clean and supplied with suitable lubri- 

In case any great amount of play is 
found in the bevel driving gears, the 
looseners between the crown and bevel 
pinions may be taken up by adjusting the 
gears to riesh closer with each other. 

This adjustment requires good judg- 
ment, since a very slight change in the 
position of the two gears is likely to in- 
crease the friction in transmitting power 
to the wheels, and the inexperienced 
should consult a competent automobile 
man in case the differential requires ad- 
justment. The oil in the housing should 
be drawn off and washed out with kero- 
sene, opening the drain plug provided 
for this purpose, and then filling up with 
the proper quantity of oil or light grease 

The mechanical oiler or pump should 
be taken apart and thoroughly cleaned 
out with kerosene or gasoline to remove 
the old oil. The oil pipes and leads 
should likewise be cleaned out by forcing 
a gun or two of gasoline through' them. 
Where a sight feed is fitted to the dash, 
this should be taken apart, cleaned, and 
the glasses washed out with gasoline. 

Looking After the Wheels 

The axles and bearings of each wheel 
should be cleaned with kerosene or gaso- 
line. The roller or ball bearings will 
probably be in good condition, but if 
found otherwise the damaged part must 
be removed. The tires should be re- 
moved, the rims cleaned of any rust that 
may have accumulated, and the metal 
sandpapered smooth. Further rusting 
may be prevented by either painting the 
rims with a couple of coats of black en- 
amel, or by the application of beeswax, 
melted and applied with a brush. 

The brakes should be taken down and 
well cleaned and examined for possible 
wear. If the frictional lining or ex- 
pander shoes are worn to any extent, 
these should be renewed. Toggle joints 
and all adjusting bolts and screws should 
be attended to and any looseness taken 
up. The brake-lever and foot-pedal 
should be examined to ascertain if they 
have the proper amount of travel re- 
quired for efficient braking. The adjust- 
ment of the brakes should, however, be 
left until the car is assembled, and as 
the maximum braking power applied by 
the equalizing bar can only be secured 
if both brakes are adjusted as nearly 
alike as possible, this important matter 
can only be properly determined to a 



nicety while the car is driven on the 

As the tires are by far the most expen- 
sive item in the maintenance of a car, 
the matter of shoes and tubes should be 
given careful attention. After removing 
them the tires should be cleaned of any 
adhering mud and the inside brushed out 
to remove the old chalk. The tread 
should be examined for cuts and holes, 
which should be cleaned with gasoline 
to remove the dirt, and then sealed with 
rubber solution. Large cuts can only be 
properly repaired by vulcanizing. The 
motorist should make it a point to repair 
all cuts and punctures in the shoes at 
once, thus preventing the entrance of dirt 
and moisture. If this is promptly at- 
tended to, sand blisters and mud boils 
will be done away with and the life of 
the tire will be considerably lengthened. 

As soon as the tread begins to show 

signs of excessive wear, the worn shoes 
should be removed from the wheels and 
sent to the factory to be retreaded, after 
which they will be good for many hun- 
dred additional miles of travel. When 
laying up the car, the shoes should be 
cleaned and wiped dry and stored in a 
cool, dark place. The tires should never 
be allowed to bear the weight of the car 
while in the garage for any extended pe- 
riod, and although the car may be idle 
but for two or three days it is a good 
plan to jack up the axles to keep the 
weight off the tires. Tubes should be 
tested for leaks, and after being repaired 
should be folded flat with the valves up- 
permost and secured with wide rubber 
bands (old tubes make the best and 
strongest rubber bands). Talcum pow- 
der or soapstone should be liberally used 
inside the shoes and sprinkled freely in 
the folds when folding up the tubes. 

Vanderbilt Llniversity is in Nashville, Tennessee. Like- 
wise it is a college with a short but entirely honorable 
athletic record. If you don't believe it read the article 
on Vanderbilt by Henry Jay Case in the June OUTING 



Cases Which Show That You Never Can Be Sure What Your Big 

Game Will Do 

N my wanderings in remote 
places prying into the haunts of 
wild animals, from the jaguar in- 
habited fastnesses of Mexico to 
the dark Alaskan forests, where 
lives the great brown bear, and 
into the depths of Africa's wilds, I have 
found no fixed rule worth recording as 
to what any wild beast will do under 
stress of pain, excitement, or anger. 

Indeed it is because the wearers of 
those much coveted horns and pelts are 
so prone to do the opposite to the stereo- 
typed line of conduct some are wont to 
ascribe to them in cases of emergency, 
that the sportsman sometimes unwit- 
tingly and* quite suddenly finds himself 
in a perilous position, or on the other 
hand comes out easily from a very close 

The savage beasts of the wilderness 
undoubtedly breed individuality in their 
solitude; we can almost believe it a 
stronger individuality than that of hu- 
mans who are bound by laws and pre- 
cedent. We can almost believe them 
thinkers, deep thinkers, each studying 
out the problems of life .alone. Their 
life is one of savagery and cleverness, 
so closely interwoven that it is but a 
guess to say what will happen at the 
eleventh hour. That they may fly like a 
craven at the first glimpse of the pur- 
suer, that they may charge or stalk him 
in the glare of day, that they may hide 
from him on the summit of the highest 
mountain or in the gloom of the deep- 
est forest, or snatch him at night from 
the midst of his companions all adds to 
the great gamble in the game of their 

While on safari in the African wilder- 


ness I encountered two lions which 
strongly demonstrated the uncertainty 
of mood and temper in dangerous game. 
One of the beasts, although un- 
wounded, had charged and been killed 
when he could have escaped with ease. 
A moment afterward' we encountered 
the other who swung off and plunged 
into the donga. I threw a line of 
beaters across it and when pressed by 
my men the lion sprang into the open, 
his mane all a-bristle, and roared. The 
beaters, terror-stricken, dropped their 
iron mess kettles and shinned up the 
nearby trees. I was new to the game of 
lion-hunting, and after my experience 
with the other expected this fellow to 
come tearing down upon us, but he 
didn't. He just stood there lashing his 
tail and the rumble of his mutterings 
came to me like the roll of distant 

I had been waiting for just such, an 
opportunity and called to the beaters to 
cease their clamor, for I was afraid the 
lion would charge and get a man or 
slink back to his stronghold among the 
reed beds, either of which was undesir- 
able. From my place on the sloping hill- 
side I dared not shoot for I knew that 
just beyond him, directly in my line of 
fire, were several of my men crouching 
near the edge of the reeds, so I walked 
rapidly to one side and the lion, seeing 
the movement, turned and glared in my 
direction. Then he suddenly flattened 
to the ground, as if about to charge, and 
I threw up my gun hastily for a shot, 
but at that moment the brute wheeled 
and slunk like a shadow into the donga. 

The quivering of the tall grasses 
showed the direction of his passage, but 



when I rushed down to the edge of 
the marsh, all was quiet and still, and 
the lion was nowhere to be seen. Then 
from across the swale came a volley of 
commands from Magonga, my gigantic 
headman. He was calling to the men 
to resume their beating, and he himself 
strode into the marsh howling insults 
to the lion in guttural Swahili. 

As he entered, the reeds almost en- 
tirely covered him, and I could see his 
red fez, bobbing up and down like a 
cork on the bosom of a pond. The other 
blacks followed reluctantly, and those 
perched in nearby trees came down cau- 
tiously until the marsh again resounded 
with their yells and the harsh beatings 
from their metal kettles. 

Between the bare, thorn-rimmed hills 
the donga, fifty to a hundred yards in 
width, lay green and glistening, a moist, 
oozy marsh of jungle growth, reeds, 
and giant grasses. From the forest on 
the east it entered the broad plain and 
disappeared far to the north in a twist- 
ing, serpent-like course. A lying up 
place it was for all the carnivora? that 
infested these wild open places. 

The blacks knew the dangers that 
lurked in its silken folds, but the savage 
Magonga kept them at it and as I ran 
forward, hoping to gain a place of van- 
tage from the hill ahead, I could hear 
their wild yells behind and knew that 
the lion would soon be forced from his 
place of concealment into the open 
country, when the unexpected hap- 
pened as it always does in lion-hunting. 
In rounding the edge of a thick bunch 
of cover I saw just before me the lion 
standing. He was looking back over 
his shoulder toward the beaters. I 
threw a bullet at him then and by all 
the laws of sport and rifle-shooting he 
should have been mine, but it is a well- 
known fact that even the best of high 
powered rifles are short in their driving 
force when fired at close quarters, the 
bullet not having had time to gain the 
proper spin. So the lion was wounded 
only and with a mighty spring disap- 
peared into the donga. I gave a yell 
then that must have awakened legions of 
sleeping monkeys for miles around, for 
I wanted that lion, and soon I could see 
Magonga and my Somali gun-bearer run- 

ning toward me with a long line of 
straggling blacks behind. 

"Where simba?" (the native word for 
lion), spoke the Somali, his lips peeled 
back and his white teeth showing. The 
desperate fight made by the first lion 
I could see had also its effect on him; 
we were both expecting trouble and lots 
of it. 

This gun-boy was a quiet, unobtru- 
sive savage until the time of danger; 
then when he spoke, it always reminded 
me of the snarl a wild animal gives when 
brought to bay. Now he peered about 
him in the bushes toward the dark shad- 
ows that lurked beneath the leaves and 
his little eyes glistened. "See," I said, 
"much blood." He nodded. Magonga, 
towering over him twelve inches, black 
as though carved from solid jet, stood 
beside him and was looking at me with 
a question in his eye for Magonga could 
not understand a word of English. 

"Tell him, Dogora," I said. Dogora 
spat a word at him. Magonga sprang 
forward and looked at the blood. "Keep 
those black devils away," I cautioned 
Dogora, as the men came crowding 
near, for I felt that the lion, since 
wounded, might charge out again at any 
minute, and I didn't want the unarmed 
blacks within the danger zone. 

Dogora turned and said something to 
them quickly, and they scattered along 
the hillside as swiftly as one might blow 
flakes of powder from the palm of his 

Going After Simba 

It was high noon and the sun was 
beating down with the ferocity of yellow 
javelins when we entered the confines 
of the marsh, Dogora and I and the 
giant Magonga. Dogora held my spare 
rifle, Magonga was unarmed, and try 
as I would I could not persuade him to 
remain behind. A light wind was play- 
ing over the tops of the reeds sweeping 
them with a rustle like the swish of a 
lady's silk dress and the sun beating 
down through them cast dainty, lace-like 
patterns upon the slime and mud be- 
neath. The trail wound zigzag under 
a dense tree cover with vines, then be- 
yond through the slush and mud into 



the middle of the donga to where a 
stream, black as molten tar, slipped 
noiselessly through the arched growth 

We followed across it, floundering to 
our ears in the slime. Then we heard 
a faint, murmuring noise sounding almost 
like a hiss. Instantly I thought of the 
serpents that infested the place, but the 
low growl that followed caused me to 
raise my rifle and wait, expecting the 
foliage to open and the lion to show 
himself, but nothing appeared. Then we 
advanced again slowly, Dogora by my 
side. A glance backward disclosed 
Magonga, half crouching. The black 
had drawn his knife. 

A few feet farther on and we stopped 
suddenly as a warning growl issued from 
the thickets ahead and it w T as then that 
the nerve-racking tension of our entire 
crawl through that awful place brought 
the perspiration streaming from every 
pore, and I remember hearing with a 
start the porters laughing and calling to 
each other far away on the neighboring 

Beyond' a clump of reeds, shaded by 
the overhanging branches of a single 
Mimosa, we expected to encounter him, 
when suddenly the Somali sprang up- 
right and pointed. Slinking across the 
sparsely covered thorn hills was the lion. 
He had quit the cover and was going 
toward the jungle where we were unable 
to find him after hours of fruitless trail- 

Now this lion, though wounded, ran 
away under circumstances in which he 
would have been expected to show fight. 
The one previously encountered charged 
under conditions that pointed strongly 
to his running away. Animals are 
vastly different ; to be brave or cowardly, 
clever or stupid, docile or morose are 
traits which vary with the individual. 
And then, too, some early experience 
with humans may have inspired feelings 
of contempt, hatred, or fear that would 
have a marked influence on the actions 
of such individual when brought to bay. 

While still young he may have had 
the satisfaction of seeing the first man 
encountered flee before him. Naturally 
he would have but little fear of the 
next. Or the tables may have been 

reversed, the pain of spear or bullet 
may have instilled 1 such terror that man 
and all things pertaining to him will be 
always feared and avoided. Or, in- 
furiated by some wound inflicted, he 
may charge and kill, and from then on 
be a killer whenever occasion of hunger 
or escape may require. 

Whole herds of buffalo, (one of 
Africa's most dangerous herbivora), 
often scamper off on sight while a single 
individual encountered may, without 
molestation, attack. Once when re- 
moving the skin from a buffalo's head 
I found a small steel arrow imbedded in 
the socket of his eye and it was only 
then that I knew the reason for his 
stand when late one evening I met him 
just on the edge of the jungle. 

The African buffalo are as black as 
the dark places they haunt, and, like a 
thing detached from the blackness itself, 
he sprang forward, his little eyes reflect- 
ing the fury of his challenging bellow. 
Afterwards I pondered the reason for 
his sudden wrath, not knowing then that 
a stinging arrow, not quite true, and a 
flying native all but cost me my life. 

A Charge Out of the Dark 

One morning as a deep fog was rolling 
heavily across the hills, obscuring all 
in its milk-like folds, two rhino broke 
from cover just ahead of our marching 
safari and disappeared into the gloom. I 
was intensely relieved that these two 
swashbucklers of the African bush were 
not picking quarrels that morning and 
thought we had seen the last of them, 
but a few minutes later, as the caravan 
was filing down toward the Athi River, 
which showed dimly through the veiled 
mists ahead, from somewhere out in the 
fog came the smothered grunt of a 

The carriers stopped as if by word 
of command, dropped their loads, and 
crouched beside them. I peered around, 
but could see nothing except the faint 
tracings of the African jungle along the 
river that showed like the first delicate 
lines of a wash drawing on a dead white 
canvas. That danger was imminent, I 
knew, for the rhino, swaggering bully 
that he is, cares nothing for numbers 



when he takes it into his head to charge. 
- We stood there waiting, the minutes 
dragged slowly by, and from somewhere 
out in the dim plain came the boom of 
a cock-ostrich, making his salutation to 
the hidden sun. Instantly as though in 
echo to the sound came the screaming 
whistle of a rhino, and from the white 
night burst these two black warriors 
with lowered heads and gleaming horns 
in deadly charge upon us. 

Now the rhino is said never to turn 
if he misses the object of his charge 
but to keep straight on in blind, piggish 
fury. It is even claimed by some author- 
ities that it isn't a charge at all but 
merely a headlong rush up wind. 

One of the beasts, Struck hard by my 
bullet, sheered off and disappeared into 
the gloom. The other tore through our 
caravan, hooking right and left at camp 
paraphernalia cast down by the fright- 
ened porters. On my mount I followed 
the wild rampage of the beast and saw 
him make directly for a thorn bush 
behind which several of my men had 
taken refuge. 

On reaching the bush he lumbered 
around it, the men flying before his stab- 
bing horn. Around and around he 
swung, screaming and whistling in hys- 
terical charge. A sort of whirligig it 
was that I stopped with a steel pointed 
bullet or, regardless of all rules carefully 
set down for his guidance in such emer- 
gencies, that rhino might be chasing those 
natives around that thorn tree yet. 

Various opinions are advanced as to 
the temper of our own American ani- 
mals. Some claim that the jaguar, that 
leopard-like prowler of the southwest, 
will rarely attack a human and a moun- 
tain lion never; but I once knew an 
old hunter who had killed every known 
animal on the continent without trouble 
until he had the fight of his life with a 

The charging range of a bear is said 

to be less than a hundred yards. Two 
Clinkit Indians and I were once crossing 
a lagoon on the Alaskan coast. There 
was a strong wind driving from the 
sea and through the spouts of foam dash- 
ing high on the rock beach I caught 
occasional glimpses of a large brown 
bear standing at the edge of the timber, 
while her two small cubs some distance 
off dug industriously upon the beach for 
clams. The old bear discovered us 
while still two hundred yards away and 
signaled to her cubs to run for cover. 
Knowing that it was now or never, I 
opened up a fusillade with my rifle, but 
our canoe was bucking like a bronco in 
the heavy swells and the bullets went 
wild, simply cutting up puffs of sand be- 
side her. 

The cubs did not heed the calls of 
their mother and the reports of my 
piece, drowned as they were by the roar 
of the sea, never reached them, so they 
kept right on digging like the two diso- 
bedient youngsters they were. The old 
bear, finally infuriated at both them and 
my bullets, rushed from the forest toward 
her offspring, which she cuffed into im- 
mediate obedience, and galloping to a 
little point jutting out into the sound, 
growled hoarsely toward our canoe. 

Such was the fury of her temper that 
had dry land intervened the traditional 
hundred yard maximum charging range 
of all bears would never have stopped 
her from covering the distance which 
separated her from her enemies. 

But the uncertainty as to what each 
individual animal will do when brought 
to bay is what adds to the fascination 
of big game hunting, and although we 
know that few of God's lower creatures 
can stand unmoved before the unflinch- 
ing glint of man's eye, none know the 
caprices of their temper, none know the 
extent of their powers, and few come 
from the clash of their poisoned charge 

Twilight Jack is the creation of Kathrene and Robert 
Pinkerton. He is the Sherlock Holmes of the North 



How a Woman May Become Complete Mistress of the Indian s 

Favorite Craft 


and his squaw, Teck-ee- 
mash-ee, stopped at our 
cabin last fall to make 
a portage into a string 
of nameless lakes in the 
big swamp behind the ridge. They had 
paddled twelve miles that morning, and 
there were two miles of hard portaging 
and more paddling between them and 
the lake where they would camp that 

Teck-ee-mash-ee placed almost the en- 
tire outfit — dishes, clothing, food, tent 
and bedding, perhaps one hundred 
pounds in all — in a blanket, knotted 
the four corners, and swung it to her 
back, one strip of blanket acting as a 
head strap. Anse took a smaller pack, 
laid the paddles across the thwarts of 
their birch canoe, and lifted it to his 
shoulders. A few days later they ap- 
peared suddenly on the trail behind the 
cabin, set their canoe in the water, 
placed their packs in it, and were off 

They were making the journey to- 
gether, sharing in the work on portage, 
in canoe, in camp. And as I watched 
them down the lake, I thought of white 
men from the cities I have seen on canoe 
trips in our country, men who travel 
through a wonderful land of forest and 
lake and stream, always in parties of 
two or more and almost never with a 

'Td give anything if she'd come," 
many have told me. "I know she would 
like it when she understood it. Per- 
haps, if I got a good guide and took 
an easy trip, do you think she could 
stand it?" 

And here I always say: "Don't. 
Guide-paddled and guide-served, she will 


be shut out forever from the real wilder- 
ness. Let her learn it as you have 
learned it. Let her be your comrade, 
not your passenger." 

For paddling is one of the easiest and 
most fascinating means of traversing the 
trail to the real spirit of the wilderness. 
And it is as possible to the woman as 
to the man. What she may lack in phys- 
ical strength she may more than over- 
balance by her nerve force, her endur- 
ance. Even before her paddling may 
take her to the real wilderness it can 
afford her pleasure. There is as much 
joy in the quick, effectual stroke as in 
any other well-played game of the out- 
of-doors. Wind and current are as 
worthy adversaries as one finds on links 
or courts, and the victory is as satis- 

I shall never forget my first rapids. 
I had ascended them by tracking line 
and had done much steering in the bow 
while the canoe was being poled up long 
stretches of white water. I had learned 
all the rocks and currents in that rapids 
thoroughly and had absorbed the prin- 
ciples, and much of the practice, of 
steering from the bow. 

But w r ith the stern man standing, 
ready with the pole to snub the craft, 
and upon me resting almost alone the 
guiding, I had a sudden desire, when the 
current gripped us, to jump, to scream, 
to do anything but accept the responsi- 
bility. Ahead was a large boulder, 
around and over which the water boiled. 
We seemed to be rushing straight upon 
it. Desperately 1 plunged my paddle in 
and drew the canoe to one side. Now 
I know that the parting of the current 
by the rock helped me. Then I felt 
only that I had conquered my fear, 
controlled my nerves, and met the situ- 



ation. A feeling of exultant triumph 
and new confidence came to me. 

And that is only one of the many 
things canoeing has done for me. It 
has brought a greatly increased physical 
efficiency and a new joy in the possession 
thereof. It has brought calm and con- 
trolled nerves, not only on the water but 
with the rifle, the rod, and on the long 
snowshoe tramp. 

It has taught me to love the north- 
land and to feel its lure, as men love 
it and feel it. This, for women, means 
another of those rare planes upon which 
they can meet men as comrades. It 
means that they can understand men 
where they have not understood before, 
and that men can find a new quality 
to appreciate. It does not mean a cor- 
responding loss in womanliness, even 
though the woman ceases to expect the 
usual little attentions made difficult by 
the toil of portage and paddle. 

A joy in maps has come, an under- 
standing of the attraction of the wide 
spaces for men. The adventurous, ex- 
ploring spirit has been aroused, and 
dim . trails have beckoned. 

And the canoe has made possible an 
intimate acquaintance with that strange, 
silent, hard-shelled, lovable individual, 
the woodsman. I have learned to know 
his point of view, to understand his life, 
his work, the type, and the canoe has 
made it possible for me to talk to him 
and, far better, to loosen his tongue and 
open a storehouse of interesting, in- 
timate little bits of forest wisdom. I 
have spent many pleasant hours with 
trappers, talking paddle blades, canoes, 
traps, fur, snowshoes, dogs, toboggans, 
woods, foods and clothing, and out-of- 
the-way places which even men seldom 

The necessity of suitable clothing for 
the canoe was one of the first things 
impressed upon me. Like all other sub- 
jects of this nature, only fundamental 
rules can apply. The individual must 
build upon them to suit herself and con- 
ditions. To paddle correctly and effec- 
tively, the lower garments must be sup- 
ported by the hips, not by the waist. 
The upper garments must be sufficiently 
loose to allow free movement of the 
arms and shoulders. If the cruise is in 

the north woods, clothing must be of 
wool to prevent chills and to confine 
the activities of mosquitoes to the face 
and hands. Shoes should be waterproof 
for there are no docks in the wilderness, 
and sufficiently heavy for rocky port- 

These rules may apply equally to con- 
ventional attire or to riding breeches 
and wool shirt. That is a question for 
the individual's ideas on propriety, com- 
fort and convenience. I prefer riding 
breeches. Bloomers catch on snags and 
brush as readily as skirts. Woman is 
sufficiently handicapped by her lesser 
strength without incurring an added 
disadvantage in her manner of dressing. 

Custom, necessity, and a skill either 
instinctive or acquired in infancy, per- 
haps both, have given the Indian woman 
the stern position in the birch bark 
canoe. The Indian man is the pro- 
vider, and he provides with his rifle. 
Consequently, he sits in the bow that 
he may have an unobstructed shot. In- 
dian girls begin to paddle as soon as 
their brothers. Before maturity their 
skill is marvelous. 

Bow a Good Place to Learn 

In the canvas canoe of the white man 
conditions are entirely different. 
Greater skill and strength are needed 
in the stern, and there is no hunting. 
Consequently, the woman sits in the 
bow. This position does not, however, 
deny her opportunity to exercise skill 
and strength or display endurance. All 
three qualities are needed. 

The bow position gives the woman the 
best opportunity to learn. Progress is 
not seriously impeded by her first in- 
effectual strokes. The stern paddler is 
in a position to guide and instruct and 
still keep the canoe moving on its course. 

When the woman has learned to swing 
her paddle well, she has only begun. 
First, she should learn the requirements 
of straight-ahead paddling in open water. 
These are the setting of a regular, quick 
stroke, for the stern paddler follows the 
bowman's pace, and the utilization of 
every bit of strength expended in pro- 
pelling the canoe straight ahead, not 
obliquely. This means that the paddle 



should be started out from the canoe's 
side and pulled straight back, not swung 
in an arc. 

After straight ahead paddling has be- 
come natural, ' the movement uncon- 
scious, and strength established, let the 
woman in the bow understand that she 
must keep at work. If she becomes 
tired, she should cease paddling and rest. 
To stop every few strokes and fix her 
hair, adjust her hat, pull on her gloves, 
is most exasperating to the man in the 

The next step is rough lake travel. 
If the stern man is the right sort, he 
is not going to take chances and will be 
able to handle the canoe in the threaten- 
ing waves. Be certain he is capable and 
then have confidence in him. Under no 
circumstances paddle frantically, and 
never try to balance the canoe from the 
bow, no matter how dangerously it may 
careen. Safety depends greatly upon the 
bowman's unshifting position and reg- 
ular even stroke. Nothing is harder on 
the nerves of the novice than a long 
stretch of vicious white caps, and noth- 
ing is more exciting or stimulating for 
the woman who has experience and con- 

Picking Up the Finer Points 

After a certain degree of perfection in 
straight paddling has been attained, the 
woman will find pleasure in learning the 
finer points. Many are offered in the 
bow, for, in many conditions of water, 
much of the control of the canoe de- 
pends upon the forward paddle. There 
is the draw stroke, which pulls the 
bow quickly toward the side on which 
the paddle is used. Proficiency means 
greater ease in turning sharp bends in 
small streams, in dodging hidden bould- 
ers and in approaching landings. The 
throw stroke, difficult to learn and 
known to few men outside the wilder- 
ness, is equally important. Once ac- 
quired, it permits the woman in the bow 
to "throw" the canoe away from the 
side on which she is paddling. It is 
needed as often as the draw stroke and 
is invaluable in boulder filled water. 

Because it is so little known, perhaps 
it should be described. The paddle is 

held perpendicularly five or six inches 
from the gunwale, the blade in the 
water and parallel to the canoe. The 
lower hand, and there must be a strong 
wrist, grasps it above the blade and is 
held rigidly. The upper hand turns 
the leading edge of the blade slightly 
toward the canoe. This results in a 
terrific strain on both arms, and the 
beginner's paddle will be wrenched 
loose. But, if held firmly, the paddle 
will shoot the canoe quickly to the side, 
and the turn is negotiated or the hidden 
boulder passed safely. The value of this 
stroke lies in the fact that it may be 
used instantly, there being no necessity 
to shift the paddle from one side of the 
canoe to the other. 

From the first day there are other 
things than handling the paddle to be 
learned. Go slowly. Remember your 
muscles are unaccustomed to the exercise. 
Paddle only a short time, but when you 
do paddle, paddle correctly. 

Learn to enter and leave the canoe 
easily. Do not expect to get in when it 
is fast upon shore. Be willing to wade 
out to it. Your waterproof boots are 
partially for the protection of the craft. 
Do not sit upon or in the canoe when it 
is out of the water. Nothing is more 
maddening to the owner than to see 
his craft abused. 

When you know that a portage is to 
be made, and you should know it, be 
ready to leave the canoe quickly and to 
take your belongings with you. Do not 
leave your hat, gloves, bag, and a dozen 
smaller articles for the men to pick up 
and hand to you. About the only way 
a woman can assist on a portage is by 
collecting and caring for her small pos- 
sessions and not causing trouble. 

Once you have become proficient in 
the bow, exchange places with the stern 
man and learn to paddle the canoe in 
his position. Learn to paddle a canoe 
alone from the center, the only position 
in which one person can properly handle 
the craft. This not only adds to your 
skill as a canoewoman, but you are pre- 
pared to meet emergencies characteristic 
of forest travel and perhaps save a life. 

To paddle well and to obtain the 
maximum results physically, one should 
paddle from the knees, leaning against 



the seat or thwart. This is difficult for 
anyone at first, and more so for a woman 
because of her corset-weakened back 
muscles. And that is only an argument 
in favor of knee paddling. Learn slowly. 
Try it a few minutes at a time, or until 
cramps and impeded circulation compel 
a return to the seat. In time, realiza- 
tion of the added efficiency and value 
of the exercise and the comfort of the 
position will cause you to abandon the 
seat forever. 

Acquiring proficiency in the many de- 
tails comes not so much through a re- 
ligious observance of rules as from a 
mental attitude. The desire to be com- 

petent, to be useful, almost uncon- 
sciously brings proficiency. While in 
itself the mastery of canoe and paddle 
is gratifying and fascinating, the day 
will come when you will have estab- 
lished your ability to keep on hour after 
hour with that rhythmic stroke and to 
meet situations as they arise, when you 
will have realized the glory in physical 
efficiency. Then you will step into the 
canoe in the coolness of a northern 
morning and, something new in your 
blood, your imagination quickened, 
suddenly enter the wilderness realm, 
suddenly grasp the great spirit of the 
out of doors. 



Kinds of Clothing That Have Been Found Suited for Rough 

Going Afield 

™ HIS title, I note, is a bit 
deceptive. I don't mean 
• hunting for them, but in 
them, which is a lot more 
fun. I've never quite got 
to the regions where they 
hunt only in a cartridge belt and two 
days' growth of whiskers, but I have 
been idiot enough to hunt sheep in the 
desert in July, where the mercury sat on 
the roof of the thermometer and won- 
dered how it was ever going to get back 
into that little tube. Also have I ven- 
tured into the Canuck country in the mid- 
dle of winter and gazed at the face of a 
thermometer where the thin blue line in 
the tube sat down at 40 below. 

These two foolish seances, with a few 
tucked in between, have persuaded me 
that some of the hunting clothes in com- 
mon use are of the nature of a certain 
citrus fruit, not oranges, either. 

It is as natural for an American to 
prefer to hunt — or to work — or to go to 
church, if his wife wouldlet him, in his 
shirt sleeves as it seems to be for the 
Englishman to do all these things in his 
coat. It fairly makes my shoulders 
wriggle with discomfort to sec some 

Johnny Bull portrayed in the act of 
shooting a pheasant, handicapped in a 
modish Norfolk coat, and a collar into 
the bargain. 

I regard the coat as an invention of the 
evil one. It may be tolerated in civili- 
zation, but wearing one when it is not 
necessary is to me evidence of a throw- 
back to some English forebear. Comment 
on collar wearing seems to me uncalled 
for. A shirt has a top button to use in 
case of cold, but this top button is not 
to be used except in case of necessity. 

Consider the shotgun and the coat. A 
man goes to work and has a gun made 
to his order and fitted to him down to 
the last 1/16-inch castor?. Then he pro- 
ceeds to wear a hunting coat, made to fit 
nobody, and nobly living up to its pur- 
pose. It's bunchy at the shoulder and 
binding under the arm, even if it has a 
gusset as large as a subway entrance. 
That poor goat of a gun couldn't fit that 
man to save its poor soul. Try it, the 
first time you've got on a coat — any old 
coat. Bunchy coats are responsible for 
more poor shooting than all the errors in 
gun fitting. I haven't the faintest idea 
of how a gun fits or feels, unless I get off 



my coat, and it is not one of the hair- 
bridge shoulder variety, either. 

If you shoot the shotgun, the coat is 
permissible in just two cases — when it is 
wet and when you are going to and from 
the hunting-grounds. Only a waterproof 
coat will keep out the wet, while, of 
course, the big coat is fine when you want 
to lug a lot of stuff in its capacious pock- 
ets, or want to keep off the chill of an 

My idea is this: A big, soft, warm 
sweater-jacket for comfort, when the 
weather is cold, and over it a very light 
skeleton coat, made of soft khaki, and the 
softest that you can get. The skeleton 
coat has no sleeves; it is a lot of pockets 
strung together and buttoned up the 
front. With the top button of the coat 
fastened it lies smoothly over the shoul- 
der, and having no sleeves it allows you 
to raise your arms without raising all the 
junk in the pockets thereof. You wear 
the coat for the sake of the pockets, 
therefore be it. light and soft to the end 
that wrinkles and bunches be avoided. 

Even in a cold wind, if it is a dry one, 
I can keep warmer with a buckskin shirt 
and the sweater, the arms still free and 
the shoulders smooth, than I can with 
a bunchy coat. 

The sweater proposition is worth con- 
sidering. Be not deceived in weight and 
thickness alone. Some of them consist 
of a lot of strips of very coarse and stiff 
yarn, connected — when it is on you — by 
just a little better than nothing. They 
are as warm as a lath sweater would be. 

I have one little affair I bought up in 
Canada the relative of which I would like 
very much to see. I mean I would like 
to find its big brother. It is as soft as 
down, and it weighs just a shade over a 
half-pound. For its weight, it is the 
warmest thing I ever saw, and at that 
you can roll it up and stuff it in the 
pocket of a hunting coat on the way to 
the grounds. There is not enough of 
it, it lacks the deep roll cuffs and the big 
collar that a good outing sweater should 
have, but if they make this garment in 
heavier weight and as set forth as to col- 
lar and cuffs, I have a lot of things I'll 
swap for one. 

A good, well-behaved sweater must 
protect the wrists, coming clear down 

.over the hands if you want it to, and 
it must come up around the neck, four 
inches up the back hair. Those two 
points are the vital attack for cold 
breezes. It ought to be some color that 
does not show dirt, preferably an incon- 
spicuous mixed gray or brown. 

Yes, some fellow might take you for a 
deer if you wore it into the woods, but 
what would you? He'd take you for a 
zebra if you wore green and yellow 
stripes, or shoot you for a forest fire if 
you wore flaming crimson. Protective 
coloration ? Bah ! I know an old chap 
who was shot for a wildcat as he stood 
on a rock, hitching his trousers and 
gazing over the scenery. His handsome 
face and silvery beard must have looked 
the very picture of a wildcat. 

The jacket form has everything the 
old shape has, except the habit of pulling 
your back hair around in front of your 
nose when you take it off. Therefore, 
get the sweater jacket, not the "over- 
the-head" shape. 

The Leather Jacket 

The greatest fender of wind is leather. 
The buckskin shirt is worth all it costs 
for the outdoor party. In reality, buck- 
skin is not the best material, it is too 
thick and heavy. Better by far is the 
shirt from doeskins, or from the lady 
elk or caribou. It should be soft and 
pliable, and not heavy. Weight seems 
to add nothing in the way of warmth, 
save that engendered by the work of 
carrying it around. 

In its ideal form it should be of the 
jacket persuasion. The cuffs should 
have tabs to close them tightly around 
the wrists, the collar should button up, 
preferably by a cross-tab, snugly around 
the neck. Don't use glove snap fast- 
eners. After you've pushed your Adam's 
apple clear into your spinal column try- 
ing to snap one, and then have it come 
loose in four seconds, you'll appreciate 
why I don't advise this fastener. 

All buttons should be sewed on with 
waxed linen — not merely thread. There 
should be two large pockets, patch per- 
suasion, flared shape at the bottom, closed 
by buttonable flaps. Also they should 
come above where the belt embraces you, 



otherwise it will bear on the contents 
or close up the entrances. 

The shirt should be large enough to 
fit comfortably over a very heavy 
sweater, and that means loosely. It 
is not intended to look modish, it's 
there to keep off the wind. Not a bad 
idea is putting three loops on either side 
of the chest in case you don't wear a 
cartridge belt, and want a few cartridges 

If you own such a shirt and desire to 
clean it, don't fuss with it yourself, turn 
it over to a furrier and tell him to use 
gasoline, and then put it in the big 
revolving machine where they dry skins 
that have been soaked. 

I know of nothing better, for all 
around use in the wilds, than Uncle 
Sam's olive drab clothing. Not the 
coat, that's a military fright, tight- 
fitting, choky, and as useless as snow- 
shoes to an elephant. The trousers, cut 
on riding lines, are extremely comfort- 
able when they fit you, loose cut in the 
hips and legs, and lacing up at the calf. 
The material is a greenish-brown, of a 
fine quality of wool, and up to most of 
the clothing Uncle Sam now buys for 
his troops. 

The shirt is as good as the trousers, 
of a variety apparently of flannel, with 
patched elbows, large patch, flap-closed 
pockets, and wearing like iron. They 
sell a near-soldier shirt of brown in the 
stores, but it is rarely the real thing, 
and just as rarely as good as Uncle's 
article. I think the real shirt can be 
had from the best outfitters, but if you 
can, get a look at the military shirt 
before buying one as the real article. 

Mackinaw has the call for colder 
climates than usual, or for outdoor work 
in the winter. It's first cousin to a 
blanket, and as usually made up, it 
would make the Belvidere Apollo look 
like a roughneck lumberman. The only 
fit about it is the one your wife throws 
the first time you appear garbed in it. 
Anyhow, it is mighty warm and com- 
fortable, even though it does make you 
look like a cross between a bear and a 
freight train wrapped in a blanket. 

Being narrow-minded, I cannot see 
any form of leggin, in case this is your 
choice of leg-gear, except the two puttee 

affairs. One is a strip of wool cloth, 
two inches wide, to wrap around the 
leg like a surgeon's bandage, or a spiral 
staircase. When it is wrapped good 
and tight it is the worst thing in the 
world, but after a while you'll learn 
to leave the same margin a cavalryman 
does under the bridle latch, and your 
troubles will cease. The other form is 
a straight brown canvas leggin, with a 
narrow canvas strap to wind around it 
and keep it closed. 

I've worn this sort through brush 
so dense that it would relieve you of 
your watch and pull the bullets out of 
your cartridges, and I've found it to 
be away ahead of the ordinary lace-up 
affair, commonly wished on the leggin- 
buying innocent. 

The strap must be doubled over and 
pulled snugly through the fastener after 
it is buckled, leaving no outside loop to 
catch in the brush. 

Beware of Laced Leg gins 

The regulars hate this form, because 
they are a bit slower to put on than 
the lace-up — and the regular is at times 
called rudely from his couch, nor are 
excuses heard by the sour-tempered first 
sergeant. This lace-up is the poorest 
form. In thick brush the twigs catch 
in the laces, and the leggin will usually 
adorn something beside your calf before 
you've gone far through our California 
variety of small timber. Also a leggin 
with a strap below the foot is almost 
pathetic. You'll walk through that strap 
in about one day of rocky going. After 
all, no leggin is quite so satisfactory for 
all-around use as the soft, flexible, high- 
topped boot, with ten or twelve inch 
height from floor to top of boot. 

Naturally no man, out of the care of 
his parents or a guardian, should go into 
the woods with city socks, but they do. 
Also they sometimes take along a pair 
of old street shoes for a mountain hunt — 
"to wear them out and get rid of them." 

There are just three things rolled up 
in the one best bet for outing socks — 
wool, thickness, softness. It is not a 
question of climate, wool is the only safe 
fabric. They must be thick to cushion 
the always-tender feet for the first few 



days, and they must be soft to guard 
against the ever-eager blister. Also 
they should not be colored in any decided 
shade, but a neutral gray. Dye poison- 
ing is not common in these days of bet- 
ter processes, but it is always possible 
where abrasions of the skin are present. 

Buckskin shirts and heavy sweaters 
and olive-drab trousers w T on't keep out 
the wet, when that comes on the pro- 
gram. Waterproof coats and pants are 
very hot, and should really be used 
only when sitting still, say in a blind, 
or where the temperature is low enough 
so you won't sweat clear through to the 
works of your watch. 

The waterproof coat is of more im- 
portance than the trousers. Your 
trousers will dry fast enough in camp or 
on you when the rain stops, but if you 
get a big, heavy sweater soaked up, or 
a buckskin shirt thoroughly slimy, then 
you've got trouble. The sweater will 
stay damp until the sun comes out again, 
and the shirt — I've seen wet buckskin 
garments shrivel right into thin air, 
leaving nothing but the buttons and 
thread. If your chest stays warm, it 
does not matter greatly whether or not 
your legs are wet, while a proper pair 
of shoes should take care of your feet. 

They make featherweight oilskins, 
both as short coats and trousers, and as 
long slickers. This is the proper sort 
of garment; weight does you no good, 
save it adds strength, all you w T ant is 
something to shed water. For a single 
garment, the long coat, or slicker, does 
nicely, but naturally it is not adapted 
to hiking around on the hunt. 

After all, if you're going to sit still, 
in a wagon or in a saddle, for example, 
there is nothing better than a good warm 
coat with big side pockets, made out of 
some such material as mackinaw, craven- 
etted against rain, and perhaps lined with 
thin chamois-skin. It does not do if 
you are to use your arms vigorously, or 
shoot; it is merely a big, snuggly, com- 
fortable garment to keep you and the 
cold at least a half-inch apart. Your 
worn-out city coat is not "it." The gar- 
ment wants to be about three sizes lar- 
ger, and made for the special purpose of 
keeping you comfortable against either 
wet or cold. 

The vital points of cold attack are 
the ankles, wrists and neck. Let a cold 
breeze blow up your trouser legs, an- 
other down your wrists, and a third in- 
sert its chill fingers into your neck — and 
the garments of an Arctic explorer won't 
keep you comfortable. 

Don't monkey with paper or leather 
vests, this is mostly rot. The warmest 
part of your body is the chest, most 
of your garments meet across it, and 
there are other points that need protec- 
tion far more. Babying the chest and 
neck in all weathers as some people do 
is nonsense anyhow. Consider the 
slight but beauteous damsel. Given that 
she has a beautiful neck — and I'll gam- 
ble that she'll wear that neck and con- 
siderable of its adjacent territory cov- 
ered with a see-'em sort of gauze in 
weather that calls for overcoats. Also 
she'll get by with it, and pneumonia 
will trouble her not at all. 

The only sort of vest really useful 
is the buckskin, again better if made 
out of doe epidermis. Here it can be 
made with a lot of pockets, covered w T ith 
flaps, in which can go the pipe, the 
matches, the compass, and other things 
that are apt to be needful while on the 

It is light, not noticeable, and in the 
occasional times when you climb per- 
spiring up a slope and step into a freshly 
refrigerated breeze, it does act as a safe- 
guard against the quick chilling of the 
body and dangers of a cold or pneu- 
monia. The point is its pockets justify 
its presence, while as a mere safe- 
guard against cold, it w r ould not be 
worth while. 

Mine has a tab across the bottom that 
keeps it from flapping or catching in 
things, and yet that allows it to hang 
open and loose when things are hot. 

If you go in for one, see that the 
two bottom pockets are large, flare 
shaped, and covered with closely fit- 
ting button flaps. 

In all the buckskin garments you have 
made, insist upon real sewing and real 
buttons, really put on to stay. Belief 
to the contrary notwithstanding, it is 
possible to put on a button to stay al- 
most indefinitely but the art is little prac- 
tised in these days. 





Photographs by the Author 

Why the Myriads of Shore Birds Have Disappeared from the 

Tide-Flats and Beaches 

NCE there was a time — 
| and it was not so very 
long ago, either — when 
there were little people 
who loved the mud, living 
out upon the tide-flats and 
beaches and muddy shores. They were 
nomads, appearing here and there on this 
or that shore at certain times of the year ; 
but they were very regular in their hab- 
its of life and quite dependable. They 
loved the muddy and moist places wher- 
ever they could find them ; and thus these 
little folks were found across the conti- 
nent, wetting their lively feet in the salt 
ripples that washed the tide-flats of the 
old Atlantic or Pacific, or in the sweeter 
water of the inland lakes, or in the sea- 
sonal sloughs and ponds or river mar- 
gins of the inland plain country. They 
were a populous race; at their trysting- 
places and rendezvous of the spring and 
autumn they came together in myriads; 
and being half-musical and very conver- 
sational, they filled the air with pleasing 
chat and melody and turned many of the 

w^aste and lonely flats into pleasant 

But it is not so to-day. These little 
people — Limicolae, or the wading folk, 
the books call them — are not now in 
myriad flocks and their pleasant voices 
are all but hushed. Of the former hosts 
that fifty years ago swung down the At- 
lantic coast in early autumn and back 
again in the spring but a pittance re- 
main. And why? Thoughtless men 
made war upon these wading folk. They 
came to these mud-flats in spring and 
fall, carrying guns and other shooting 
paraphernalia, and soon the helpless ar- 
mies of the waders dwindled from the 
earth. The wading folk were simple- 
minded and confiding, they were small 
and weak, and though the speed of the 
wind almost was in their wings, the 
struggle was most unequal and they 
quickly vanished. 

Plover, snipe, curlew, the largest and 
strongest of the tribes, were the first to 
fall. Their size was their curse. Their 
bodies were the most toothsome, their 




ways most gamy, and so their ranks 
quickly withered. Those that best sur- 
vived by escape were the insignificant 
ones, the tiny sandpipers almost too di- 
minutive to be noticed by men with guns ; 
their smallness was their salvation for 
the time. 

Very long ago it was declared quite 
impossible both to have the apple and to 
eat it, but these men failed to realize that 
they could not have the plover and shoot 
him. There is but one way in which 
hunters can have any wild animal and 
hunt it to any considerable extent; this 
is by making up to the hunted in some 
other way for the losses inflicted. Usual- 
ly this is achieved by lessening the natu- 
ral foes of the animal. 

For example: the grouse of the plains 
can hold his own against a limited 
amount of shooting chiefly for the reason 
that in the settlement of the land the 
natural foes — hawks, owls, coyotes, foxes, 
skunks, badgers, etc. — are much reduced 
in numbers. But with many of the plo- 
ver and snipe kind this course was im- 
possible. The birds nested in the Arctic, 
migrated along the coast, and wintered 
in the tropics ; no help in their breeding- 
grounds could be offered them, and thus 
every hundred birds cut down en route 
was just that many lost. There could be 
but one ending. To-day, when protect- 
ive laws have come to the rescue, there 
are few of the little shore people to pro- 

Not Real Game Birds 

How many species of the wader folk, 
w r e may well ask, can or could ever be 
called legitimate game birds? By the 
term I mean birds whose greatest use to 
mankind is served by their making a 
hardy quest afield, their flesh being pala- 
table, and these same birds, be it under- 
stood, of little economic value when 
alive. Of some fifty species of North 
American waders, it is at least easy to 
pick out the few most popular with the 
shooting fraternity. Those that have 
suffered most are the curlews — one spe- 
cies, the Eskimo, being now extinct — the 
woodcock, Wilson snipe — both strong fa- 
vorites — the golden and black-bellied plo- 
vers, greater and lesser yellowlegs, mar- 

bled godwit, willet, and upland plover 
(Bartram sandpiper). 

Of all these species, undoubtedly the 
Wilson snipe and the woodcock are the 
most worthy of the name of game birds. 
They have a fairly well-developed notion 
of self-defense ; the others lack it. They 
lie and hide well in cover — without the 
aid of the dog man would be hopelessly 
out-matched at their game of hide and 
seek; they are speedy and tricky a-wing, 
and their nesting grounds are far enough 
south to derive some benefit from summer 
protection. Yet to-day woodcock shoot- 
ing is but the name of a once common 
sport ; and the Wilson snipe, whose home 
is from ocean to ocean, has held his own 
a little better merely on account of his 
greater range and numbers. 

Of the other much-shot species the 
golden and black-bellied plover some- 
times show some shyness — they have ac- 
quired it at terrible cost, but usually all 
of these species may be approached by a 
gunner in the most open places, or whis- 
tled in to decoys and mowed down with 
fine shot. These two plover species and 
both yellowlegs are far-northern nesters. 
They receive no extra protection during 
their nesting season, and though once in 
almost inconceivable numbers now they 
are following the path of the curlew. 
The godwit, willet, and long-billed cur- 
lew are southerly nesters in the inland 
plains region, and doubtless derive some 
benefit from their summer conditions; 
but they are by nature almost unfit to 
take care of themselves when pitted 
against the man with the gun. 

Not one of the pictures shown here- 
with was taken with a telephoto camera, 
nor was any means of concealment used, 
either for camera or photographer. The 
willet on the shore were stalked with the 
canoe — once or twice indeed in attempt- 
ing to get them the canoe almost bumped 
them. The northern phalaropes were 
snapped from the canoe out in mid-lake 
two miles from shore; the godwits were 
approached on foot. 

In the fishing picture — which is really 
not such at all, but a snipe picture — note 
the yellowlegs behind the figure. It had 
followed him around at heel for some 
time, and when I came with the camera 
it flew an instant before I pressed the 




shutter release. There were times when 
the bird was but six or seven feet from 
the man wielding the bamboo pole, and 
it was the splashing of the struggling 
pike that finally scared it. Could such 
birds be classed as game? What skill 
would be required to mow them down 
with a shotgun? 

Mow them! For that was the way 
the little shore folks that were orderly 
and flew in ranks were cut down in the 
days when the market shooter was in his 
pristine rankness and the others who 
shot for fun had not begun to think of 
conservation or moderation in killing. 
Truly they were mowed down. The 
weapons used against them were barba- 
rously unfair. It is morbidly interesting 
to compare the weapons brought against 
the snipe kind with those used against 
the deer. 

A snipe has an oval body of, we will 
say, three inches — not counting head, 
neck, wings or legs; a twelve-gauge gun 
with standard load throws 954 pellets of 
number ten shot; a single bird is in dead- 
ly range at thirty yards or 360 times the 
length of himself. A deer's body is about 

three feet long — irrespective 

of head, neck, or limbs — and 

reasoning along the same 

lines, he ought to be hunted 

with an eight- or nine-inch 

cannon with a thirty-foot 

barrel throwing some 200 

pounds of ounce missiles in 

a deadly swath at 400 yards! 

Were such weapons at large, 

not many Nimrods would 

take to the north woods in 

the autumn, and the daring 

few who ventured would 

have even less chance of 

coming back whole than is 
the case to-day. 

Not all of the sad killing 
was done along the tide- 
flats in the autumn. Many 
of these birds, notably the 
golden plover, during the 
yearly migration followed a 
somewhat elliptical course. 
They came from the arctic 
in the autumn by way of 
the Atlantic coast to South 
America, and returned in 
spring inland up the Mississippi basin; 
and they were hunted and their ranks 
were thinned during both movements. 
But the chief killing was done on the 
Atlantic; and the fact that the godwits, 
willet, upland plover, and other inland 
migrants are still alive in considerable 
numbers goes to show that the inland 
basin has been the safer route. 

What glorious and joyful times must 
the wading tribes have enjoyed before 
the sound of the white man's gun was 
heard in the land. For though they had 
a multitude of foes, they were far too 
clever for most of them. All the hawks 
loved to pick their plump little bodies; 
but only the swiftest of these foes — the 
duck hawk, sharp-shinned, or Cooper's — 
ever made much headway at catching 
such nimble victims. The owls, too, 
dropping on silent wing in the darkness, 
doubtless picked a few of them from the 
shallows. Predatory animals destroyed 
the eggs or sometimes caught the young; 
but all the tribe are artful deceivers at 
nest-hiding, and the young are spry little 
chaps, able to run about and partially 
fend for themselves verv soon after 




hatching. In many ways they were a 
clever tribe; their original great abun- 
dance is proof of their fitness to cope 
with their natural foes and life problems. 
But they could not cope with man. 

Also in other ways they were and are 
a wonderful clan. Facts collected by the 
extensive and intensive researches of the 

coast, thence to South Africa; the north- 
ern and red phalaropes, the able swim- 
mers of their tribe, that so far have hid- 
den their winter home, and probably 
spend this season out on the ocean ; these 
and many other wondrous facts brought 
to light stir the least imaginative mind 
and more than suggest that such birds 


naturalists of the Biological Survey bring 
revelations about their migration habits 
that are almost unbelievable ; the white- 
rumped sandpiper that breeds on the Arc- 
tic islands, 70° N.L., and winters 9,000 
miles distant in the most southerly tip of 
South America; the golden plover's 
transoceanic journey of 2,500 miles from 
Nova Scotia to northern South America 
— supposedly one flight; the turnstone 
and sanderling among others that, sum- 
mering in Alaska, sweep across the 2,000 
miles of Pacific to winter in the Hawai- 
ian Islands; the journey of the ringed 
plover from the breeding-ground in 
Greenland and Ellesmere Land, south 
and southeastward to the European 

are far too wise and wonderful to serve 
as broilers or stuffing for pies! 

In a more local sense, also, there are 
a hundred interesting things that may be 
learned about these chaps while they are 
alive. It may be the Northern phala- 
ropes out on the water, bobbing around 
like corks and twirling dizzily to pick up 
insect prey; or the Wilson phalarope fe- 
male, big, beautiful, and self-important 
— a wild-life type of female emancipa- 
tion — making her small hubby do the 
housework; or it may be the comical 
bloodless battles of the lesser yellowlegs ; 
or the hoppering expeditions of the wil- 
let in pasture or field; or the turnstone 
displacing the rubbish on the shore in his 



quest of insect food; or it may be the 
nest of that strange, erratic recluse, the 
solitary sandpiper that uses the last year's 
nest of robin or grackle for his new domi- 
cile, and only recently gave up the secret 
to science; always with the wader tribe 
there is something interesting to be 

Nor is it difficult to make the acquain- 
tance of these birds. All that is neces- 
sary is a pair of glasses and a small fund 
of patience. They will usually meet a 
visitor even more than half way. They 
are a numerous family, and with the 
smaller members differentiation of spe- 
cies is not always easy, but most of 
them are strongly and characteristically 
marked, especially in the spring, and 
these markings lend themselves fairly 
well to classification. There is little of 
that hopelessness that comes to the bird 
student in pursuit of the tiny, flitting 
warblers, quick darting in the tall tree- 
tops, and all so alike in action and voice, 
when he is studying the waders; nor lit- 
tle of that provoking sameness about 
them that makes so difficult the identifi- 
cation of the grass-loving sparrows. Also, 
the waders' confiding nature makes it 
easy to get at close range. 

Easy to Shoot 

Early in the autumn, before the birds 
become gun-shy, it is necessary only to sit 
down near the mud-margin, and they are 
almost bound to approach of their own 
accord. I recall that I once spent an 
hour trying to photograph a sanderling 
family, and I failed for the reason that 
they w T ere too tame and insisted on run- 
ning toward me at such close quarters 
that they repeatedly spoiled my focus. 
The lesser yellowlegs is quite as venture- 
some and simple. The solitary sand- 
piper is another confiding chap ; but his 
neighbor, the spotted, is usually more 
nervous and inclined to flit. The golden 
and black-bellied plovers are timid, but 
doubtless their sufferings have induced 
this frame of mind. 

How characteristic, too, are the voices 
of the waders, and especially of the lar- 
ger species! The coarse "Hai-ik!" of 
the marbled godwit; the "Pilly-willet !" 
of the chap that gets his name from his 

cry; the "Killdeer!" of another that 
names himself; the ripple and rolling 
whistle of the upland plover — he is a 
songbird to the plainsman in the sum- 
mer; the "Tu-feu-feu!" of the yellow- 
legs; the plaintive, quavering whistle of 
the black-bellied plover that seems to call 
in sadness over the deeds of shame done 
against his kind ; these and many more 
once heard and recognized can scarcely 
be forgotten. 

In studying the waders it is most inter- 
esting to note the exact habitat of each 
species, — their likes and dislikes in the 
way of surroundings. Being a numerous 
family, they show a very wide range of 
habitat. Thus the upland plover, con- 
trary to the traditions of most of his race, 
prefers the high, dry country, the prairie 
and the sandhills being his favorite sum- 
mer home. The killdeer also loves the 
dry plains, but he must have a pond or 
stream close at hand where he may cool 
his feet a part of the day. The wood- 
cock is a lover of the oozy places in the 
woods; the Wilson snipe likes the same, 
but he must have a grassy cover on his 
mud, preferably short cover, and a 
woodsy bog or a prairie slough seem to 
suit him equally well. 

The solitary sandpiper likes to spend 
his time about a muddy stream in the 
timber or reedy brakes ; the spotted sand- 
piper accepts much the same, but, better 
still, he loves a rough shore strewn with 
stones and fallen timber among which he 
may dodge about at hide and seek with 
himself. Both species of yellowlegs are 
perhaps a little less partial than the fore- 
going relatives, and almost any place 
where they may get their feet wet will 
do, providing it is out in the open. The 
sanderling takes delight in running along 
a sandy shore and playing tag with the 
wavelets that swish in and out. 

The golden and black-bellied plover, 
when not out on the uplands, stick close 
to the bare jutting points, the open and 
wind-swept bars; the godwit and willet 
choose much the same and linger about 
the sandy shorelines devoid of cover — 
and so on through the long list: each fills 
a little niche in Nature's scheme of things 
in the wet and oozy places. 

The first plover voice of the spring- 
time to shout across the inland prairies is 


that of the boisterous killdeer. And how 
welcome he is! He comes at the break- 
up when the first snow-water ponds 
gleam blue as they ripple before the south 
wind, and the first pastures and uplands 
are bared of snow. Often, indeed, the 
frosts must pinch him hard; yet each 
spring he braves the weather anew. But 
he must needs get an early start; for 
though he does not go far to the north- 
ward to find his summer home, he leads 
a strenuous life otherwise and rears two 
families. Early in April he crosses the 
50's N.L., and often it is two weeks 
later before any of his tenderer cousins 
reach the same latitudes. But finally 
they all come piping northward; they 
reach the crest of their north-going wave 
by mid-May, and early in June even the 
most tardy are on their hatching-grounds 
in the Arctic. 

Yet strangely enough, at this same lat- 
itude, by mid-July, while old Killdeer, 
in some Dakota or Manitoba pasture, is 
coaching his second family in the hard 
ways of the world, many of his kindred 
species already have returned from the 
Arctic. Less than two months previous- 
ly the pectoral and least sandpipers, the 
lesser yellowlegs, northern phalaropes, 
and others were north-going; now, after 
disappearing into the wilds of the far 
north and hatching, they are back again 

But though July sees the beginning of 


the south-going movement, it is in Au- 
gust that the return wave reaches its 
height. Few of them are lovers of the 
frosts of autumn; and by September the 
grand army is in the Southland. Even 
the killdeer that dares the cold of the 
northern springtime does not wait for it 
in the fall. The hardy chap of the au- 
tumn is the Wilson snipe. He clings to 
the marshes till late in October, and a 
few of the most daring remain till driven 
out by the freezing of the mud. 

Long may they continue to live! — 
these little people of the shore ; or, rather, 
long may what is left of them live ! They 
have suffered a persecution scarce de- 
served by man's worst foe — a persecution 
thoughtless, wanton, and undeserved; 
yet, even now, if they were let alone 
and allowed to run their busy, wonder- 
ful lives unmolested, they might repopu- 
late the mud-flats till their numbers be- 
come at least a semblance of those of 
earlier days — the days when they congre- 
gated on the beaches in thousands where 
now there are tens, and with their light- 
hearted piping and whistling made the 
daybreak world a joyous place where 
now there is silence. 

They come to us from afar in the au- 
tumn ; they return to us from afar in the 
spring; not a tithe of anything do they 
seek from mankind ; they ask nothing but 
a safe passport through the land. Might 
they not have it? 



Illustrated with Photographs 

77 Is Suited to Fair Weather and Foul, It Affords Warmth and 

Protects from Rain 

INCE every tourist should 
carry, and must sometimes 
wear, a waterproof garment, 
the pelerine is to be recom- 
mended because it is comfort- 
able, convenient, and adaptable 
to various uses as well as different kinds 
of weather. A precedent for its use in 
this country is found in the army cape 
which, many persons regret, has not met 
with popular favor for civilian dress. 
The advantages of the pelerine over the 
ordinary raincoat are many. 

The pelerine is only a large cape, 
made of a material containing sufficient 
wool to assure warmth, at the same time 
being waterproof. In addition it has a 
hood for covering the head in rainy 
weather, sufficiently large, be it under- 
stood, to protect the widest brimmed 
straw hat. There are also two pockets 
of generous dimensions, one at either 
side. They can be used for carrying 
books, papers, and small articles for 
the toilet or clothing. 

The pelerine is adjusted like an 
ordinary cape, that is, by throwing it 
around the shoulders and letting it 
hang freely from them. Two cloth 
straps cross the chest and button 
behind. The bottom is so wide 
that the folds of the pelerine can 
adjust themselves to the longest 
stride and there is not the slight- 
est hindrance in walking. One 
can even run if occasion makes 
haste necessary. There are two 
slits in the pelerine, one on either 
side, through which the hand 
may be thrust for carrying cane 
or alpine stock. When not 
in use, these slits are closed NOT 
by buttons. 

So simple is this garment the tourist 
will be surprised to find it has so much 
adaptability for wear. It can be worn 
like an ordinary cape, the collar fitting 
snugly about the neck. But in pleasant 
weather, the cape may be worn hanging 
from the shoulders, entirely in the rear, 
for full length. Thus it is not in the 
way of the pedestrian, and is so light in 
weight that he can make as rapid prog- 
ress as he chooses. 








In rainy weather the pelerine is worn 
buttoned in front for full length, the 
hood over the head. It is true this 
makes the wearer look not a little like 
a monk in cowl, unless he smiles pleas- 
antly. Being waterproof, there is no 
possibility of getting wet, especially if 
oiled shoes cover the feet. The suit be- 
neath and nether garments as well are 
kept perfectly dry. Dispensing w T ith an 
umbrella 1 , unnecessary under these con- 
ditions, is a satisfaction in a windy storm 
to be appreciated by all of experience. 

Thus equipped the tourist is prepared 
for trips in Maine or the Adirondacks 

or elsewhere. He may travel content- 
edly in the cool autumn air or misty 
dog-days always assured that the cloth- 
ing he wears will remain dry. 

It is possible to adapt the pelerine to 
uses for which it was not intended. It 
can be rolled up and used for a pillow 
or cushion on coaches, trains, or electric 
cars where the seats are hard. It can 
be spread over one at night when the 
bed coverings are too thin or when one 
is sleeping in the open, under the starry 

The pelerine is used quite generally 
in Europe by the large number of per- 
sons who make walking tours on the 
Continent each summer. It will be seen 
in the Black Forest, on the mer de 
glace, at Grindelwald, on the St. Got- 
thard pass, likewise in every nook and 




cranny of that picturesque country 
called the "Playground of Eu- 
rope," namely, Switzerland. It is 
adapted to all climates — from Na- 
ples to Christiania — and to a 
altitudes — from Dutch canals to 
the summit of Mont Blanc. 

Pelerines are worn in European 
cities to take the place of raincoats. 
And very acceptable they are. 
They protect the wearer from fall- 
ing rain or mist, and at the 
same time he can carry a 
large bundle under his pro- 
tecting covering without any 
fear that it will get wet. In 
this manner I have protected 
a suitcase in a severe storm 
while going from railway 
station to hotel. 

Another advantage of the 
pelerine is the small space 
into which it can be folded 
without any possibility of 
damage or injury. The ma- 
terial is so soft that the 
creases will come out by 
merely shaking the garment 
Even the slip-on raincoats 
can not be rolled into so 
small a bundle as a pelerine, 
which takes practically no 
space when packed in a trunk 
or valise, for it may be put into any odd 
corner. It is, therefore, free from the 
objection urged against the ordinary 
raincoat, viz., that it is inconvenient to 




carry out of all proportion to its occa- 
sional usefulness. Furthermore, as 
shown, the pelerine can be worn at times 
when the raincoat would be a nuisance. 

Next month Mr. Knowles writes about THE RUCK- 




The Urgent Need of a Source of National Wealth That Is Being 

Rapidly Wasted 

'HE governments of the 
United States, Great 
Britain, and Japan have 
agreed to protect certain 
fur - bearing animals in 
the far North. This is 
right and proper. Fur should receive 
protection as well as game, but why 
such half-way measures? This country 
was prime mover in saving the seals, but 
closes its eyes to the slaughter of millions 
of small fur-bearers going on continually 
at home, as if the lives of mink and 
skunk, of muskrat, coon, and possum 
were nothing and their pelts valueless. 
Many of these animals live right 
around the farms, almost in the farmers' 
back yards. So common are they that 
people ask if they are of any account 
and say, "Who ever heard of protecting 
that 'broken-hearted little beast' the 
muskrat, or coons, or skunks? Why 
skunks are most pestiferous animals. 
They steal chickens, eat birds' eggs, 

and — and " 

Correct. It is granted they do not 
make as nice pets for my lady fair as 
poodle dogs, lizards, and such, yet so- 
ciety demands their fur to the extent 


that during the winter just gone trap- 
pers have been paid between four and 
five million dollars for their raw pelts, 
and the cost of their skins, when made 
up, has been many times greater. 

True, they occasionally have a hen or 
chicken for dinner, but all in all are 
less harmful than feathered game, ducks, 
geese, and grouse, which are covered by 
the law's protecting mantle. When 
these birds visit a farm, root up sprout- 
ing wheat, and eat ungathered corn, 
the farmer shoos them away, counts up 
the damage, and perhaps wishes he might 
be permitted to use his gun; but that is 
no reason why they should not be pro- 
tected, so why count a few chickens 
against skunk or mink? Skunks are not 
so bad. Their motto is "Noli me 
tangere." "Let me alone and I won't 
bother you." 

Nearly every state extends protection 
to beavers, yet their muskrat cousins, 
inoffensive and harmless, are slaugh- 
tered throughout the land, spring, fall, 
and winter, with but slight restrictions 
and those in a very few states. Trap- 
ping them commences with the first 
frost of fall when they start gathering 



roots, weeds, and swamp grass, a begin- 
ning for their winter houses, although 
many are but "kits" and only half 
grown. It continues until the warm 
weather of late spring when the rats' 
hair begins dropping and the fur is of 
very low grade. 

Skins of these animals taken early in 
the fall and late in the spring are of 
little value — five or ten cents each — yet 
trapping goes on as persistently as if the 
fur was first class. Why? Let a truth- 
ful trapper answer. He says: "I know 
it is wrong, this trapping in August and 
keeping it up until well into May, but 
if I don't trap my neighbor will; might 
as well get what I can while there is 
any left." 

After the marshes freeze, then comes 
spearing, which is most cruel of all be- 
cause it destroys whole colonies of rats. 
The method is about like this: Rat 
houses are built along the edges of shal- 
low lakes or in sloughs and marshes 
where the water is not over four feet 
deep, their tops resting several feet 
above the water level. They have a 
warm nest, a sort of living-room inside 
clear of the water, with entrance and 
exit at the very bottom. The rats can 
remain under water some considerable 
time but must get air occasionally. 
Enough penetrates the hollow of a 
house for all purposes. When cold 
weather freezes everything solid, there 
is no place where they can breathe but 
in one of these nests. 

The man with a spear works on this 
knowledge. He walks to the house 
with as little noise as possible. If the 
rats hear him, out they go. He knows 
how long they can stay under water and 
waits, silently, patiently. One by one- 
they return. When the man is sure 
they are all back, nestled together, filling 
the hollow space, he drives his spear — 
which is made of 3-8 round steel and 
very sharp — with all his strength down- 
ward through the house. Frequently it 
pierces several rats, holding them 
squirming, suffering, squealing, until a 
wedge-shaped section can be cut through 
the house and into the nest. Then they 
are killed. 

Whole communities are often de- 
stroyed, a village of fifteen or twenty 

houses gutted, the furred inhabitants 
exterminated, not even a single pair left 
alive. This is not all done with the 
spear. If an opening is made the house 
is ruined and every member of the fam- 
ily using it perishes, because it gives 
shelter neither from cold and storm nor 
from predatory birds and beasts. 

Man is not the rat's only enemy. To 
have a mink enter a well-populated rat 
house is like turning a ferret loose in a 
rabbit warren. Wolves and all the cat 
tribe are partial to a muskrat diet. 
Owls and hawks have no choice between 
a fat rat and quail or rabbit. With the 
roof broken open, there is no way the 
damage can be repaired, and between 
winter storms and wandering animals, 
it is drown, freeze, or be eaten. Conse- 
quently the first movement toward musk- 
rat protection should be in shape of a 
law prohibiting spearing at any time 
and under all conditions. 

When the Floods Come 

High water is another enemy of these 
small far - bearers. Those who have 
escaped traps in the fall and spears in 
the winter are often driven from their 
houses by a spring freshet. Then they 
are more helpless than ever. They sit 
hunched up in round balls on logs, 
stumps, or some spot of high land. All 
a shooter has to do is paddle quietly 
along, or drift with the current down 
stream, following the sunny bank, and 
he can get within easy range of every rat 
he sees. Large numbers are killed in 
this manner, especially if it is a raw, 
cold day and the bank on which the 
sun shines is wind-protected and warm. 

Again, perhaps the water has risen 
gradually, lifting the ice with it until 
the rat houses are submerged, then the 
muskrats find a weak spot in the melt- 
ing ice and gnaw and paw a hole 
through to the surface. This done, they 
come often for air and a gun-man, by 
waiting, can exterminate the entire fam- 
ily. If no freshet comes, it is traps — ■ 
traps everywhere, and lucky are the rats 
that live through it all. They are very 
prolific. But for this they would have 
become extinct years ago. The second 
step toward their protection should be 



to stop trapping in the breeding time 
and, of course, shooting as well. 

Is the game worth the candle? Is 
there enough in the business to make 
legislation desirable? The writer, until 
he began getting data for this article, 
had no idea of the volume of trade in 
the pelts of these "back yard" fur-bear- 
ers, of their value, nor of the thousands 
of men and boys making money trapping 
them and the many firms whose entire 
business is selling their skins. 

Many furs are shipped to London 
and sold there at auction, sales being 
held in December, January, and March, 
with usually the largest offerings of 
skins of the smaller animals in January. 

Four prominent firms report their 
offerings of muskrats in January to be 
3,732,000 against 3,132,000 and 2,188,- 
000 one and two years ago, the increase 
being caused by a rapid advance in 
prices during 1911 and 1912 which 
doubled the army of trappers and made 
muskrats — in common with all other 
small fur-bearers — the sufferers. Janu- 
ary offerings were to a considerable ex- 
tent the catch of the previous winter and 
for the season of 1913-14 many less 
were taken, trappers reporting rats not 
nearly so plentiful, which goes to show 
that the end is in sight unless the law 
takes up the matter. 

To the January offerings should be 
added March sales, skins used by home 
manufacturers, and those handled by the 
many other firms who make no report 
and it probably would not be out of line 
to say ten million muskrat skins were 
sold during the season just past. Prices 
ranged from thirty to forty cents a skin 
for good stock — call it thirty-five — so 
$3,500,000 is the toll paid to society by 
the "broken-hearted little beast." 

Then skunks. Three of the same firms 
report their January offerings at 575,000 
against 530,800 and 558,000, in 1913 
and 1912 respectively. Add March 
sales, home consumption, and the busi- 
ness of other houses, and a million and 
a half would be a very conservative esti- 
mate. Prices varied from four dollars 
and a half for the best to a dollar for 
small Southern; say an average of three 
dollars, and we have $4,500,000 paid 
for skunk skins during the winter of 

1913-14. Someone else can figure it for 
the three years. I am afraid to. 

Can one be surprised that at a banquet 
given last December in St. Louis to the 
buyers attending the auction of Govern- 
ment furs from Alaska, the toast drunk 

"Here's to the skunk with stripe that's wide. 
Success to the trapper that snares him. 
A toast to the dealer who sells his hide, 
But give thanks to the woman who wears 

Next comes Brer Possum, poor old 
possum up a gum tree. January offer- 
ings by the same firms in the London 
market were 464,800 this year as com- 
pared with 406,500 and 407,000 one 
and two years ago. Still the increased 
slaughter the same as it was with game. 
The total, including March shipments 
and sales by other dealers, must have 
reached a 1 million, probably more. Prices 
were from a dollar down, say seventy 
cents each. This would make $750,000 
society paid the trappers for the gray, 
bristly possum skins. It isn't such very 
bad-looking fur, either. 

Our Friend the Coon 

Then we have his next-door neighbor, 
the coon. According to the dealers' re- 
port, he went to market 175,150 times 
this year and 87,300 the other two 

Raccoons are found from New York 
to Texas. Hunting them makes sport 
for farmer boys in the North, who tramp 
through the woods of a winter day and 
when they find, high in a tree, the snow 
melted around an opening leading to a 
hollow, they know a sly old coon is lying 
snug and comfortable inside, and the 
warmth of his breath has caused the 
thawing. Then with smoke or ax they 
rout him out, add his fur to that already 
drying on the barn, and figure a couple 
of dollars more just as good as in their 

Nor are the farm boys of the North 
the only ones benefited by the coon. 
From Virginia to Texas, the plantation 
darkies, helped by their mongrel curs, 
account for many a ringtailed fur-bearer, 
and the fur so taken by Northern farmer 
lad or Southern negro all finds its way 



to the nearest dealer. There 'is nothing 
raised on farm or plantation, no crop, 
no other fur — unless it should be that 
of the possum — the money from which 
is divided among so many different per- 
sons, paid in such little dabs and spent 
for so many small luxuries otherwise not 
obtainable as this coon-skin cash. 

With the lesser dealers handling so 
large a percentage of the whole, it would 
be fair to put the entire raccoon catch 
at 600,000, which sold at from seven 
dollars and a half for a few extra dark 
skins down to fifty cents for small 
Southern, a fair average being, perhaps, 
a dollar and a half, or a total of 

Mink, hunted persistently by a largely- 
increased number of trappers, show from 
their steady decrease that they will be 
the first of the small fur-bearers to dis- 
appear, if prices hold and nothing be 
done in way of saving laws. Three 
leading dealers report their January 
offerings in London as 33,909. They 
were 38,404 in 1913 and 38,366 in 

Mink are shy and hard to catch. Few 
are taken by boys. The greater part 
are caught by professional trappers, 
which reduces the number handled by 
small dealers. Probably 70,000 would 
be a fair estimate. They sold, a few 
extra dark as high as eight dollars, some 
small Southern as low as a dollar and 
a half. If we call the price four dollars 
a skin, it would give $280,000 as the 
contribution of the mink tribe to the fur 
business of last winter. 

This makes a total for home fur-bear- 
ers — those grown almost in the back 
yards of the farmers — of Thirteen Mil- 
lion One Hundred and Seventy Thou- 
sand, caught, killed, and sold. Sounds 
like pigeon-nesting time, does it not? 
And for the raw skins was paid, as esti- 
mated above, $9,930,000, one season's 
business only. Of course this is an 
estimate ; but here are some figures not 

Four prominent firms shipped and 
sold at auction in London, as shown by 
their reports of the January sales in 
1912, 1913, and 1914, skins totaling in 
number 13,989,876, all of the small fur- 
bearers excepting perhaps 150,000 wolf 

and bear, and this but part of the busi- 
ness done by these houses. Which 
shows how conservative an estimate I 
have made and tempts me to increase 
my totals. If the uncured skins of these 
small animals sold for nearly ten million 
dollars the past winter, what must their 
value be when worked into garments! 
The traffic in feathered game never 
reached such figures, yet the greed of 
man almost exterminated the birds be- 
fore laws were passed that saved them. 
The firms whose reports have been 
used in writing this article are reckoned 
as having handled more than one-third 
of the entire catch. Of Arctic furs 
they probably have, perhaps over that, 
but not of the skins of home-caught 

Only a Part of the Whole 

The opening day of the before-men- 
tioned Government sale in St. Louis, 
there were present in the auction-room 
nearly two hundred fur dealers, buyers, 
and manufacturers. Fifteen came from 
European or Canadian cities. The 
others all represented American houses, 
yet many of the smaller dealers whose 
homes were at a distance did not attend. 
Surely the outside firms for home con- 
sumption and export must have handled 
as much as estimated, very likely more. 
Yes, the estimate, bold as it appears, is 
most conservative. 

No mention is made of otter, fisher, 
marten, and badger, the catch of which 
is small. They, too, certainly require 
protection, particularly the badger, a fat, 
lazy fellow of not much value and very 
little harm. Nor has anything been 
said of cougars, wolves, lynxes, bears, 
and animals of a like kind for whose 
scalps bounties are offered and whose 
decrease is to be desired. Putting the 
bear in such company may be rough on 
him, for after all he isn't such a bad 

"You will never get protection for 
Varmints' like mink and skunk," said a 
farmer not long ago, discussing these 
animals and the question of a close sea- 
son for them. "Why, skunks have killed 
eight or ten of my chickens this winter 
and my neighbor Bill Jones has been 



trapping them since last fall. He's 
caught twenty or more." 

"\ es," he was answered, "and how 
much were your chickens worth?" 

" 'Bout six dollars, maybe." was his 

"What did Mr. Jones get for his 
skunk skins?" 

"Ain't sold them yet. Expects $3 

"\ es," the writer said, "three times 
twenty are sixty. Looks like the bal- 
ance of trade was in favor of the skunk, 
: it?" 
! I never figured that way." 
d as he walked off, rubbing 
his chin and thinking. 

There isn't even that much against 
possums and muskrats. both of which are 
very harmless. The first feeds on wild 
fruit and berries, once in a while a roast- 
ing ear. occasionally fish. The rats eat 
roots and underwater shoots of aquatic 

There is more wealth in these back 
yard fur-bearers than in feathered game, 
but the birds have rich and powerful 
friends while every hand is against the 
animals. Will not some one come to 
the front in their behalf? I 
prompt action is taken they will follow 
the bison and pigeon to the land where 
go the snows of yesteryear. 

There is a sameness in human nature 
the world over where something is to be 
had for nothing. Get what you can, as 
soon as you can, then come back for 
more. It was so in the old davs with 

game. It is so now with fur and will 
keep on being so until the animals are 
exterminated or the law raises its hand 
with the command: "STOP." 

Really now. isn't there as much reason 
why the individual States should care 
for our home fur-bearers, with values 
running into millions, as for the general 
government to make protection of 
Alaska seals a matter of diplomacy and 
treaty? Are not the proceeds better dis- 
tributed? Does not the cash go more 
directly to the needy ones, to homes of 
little wealth, to those who are struggling 
in the endeavor to make both ends meet, 
than does the money from Alaska which 
as a rule fattens the bank account of a 
few large corporations? 

Wise laws will keep this back yard 
fur money many years for the common 
people. First, give a close season vary- 
ing according to location, but on the 
average from about March 1st to Oc- 
tober 1st. Stop the spearing of musk- 
rats. Don't allow them shot in time of 
freshet. Prohibit destroying of dens 
and burrows. Protect them as are ne-ts 
of birds. Go this far and note results. 
If other laws are needed, conditions will 
suggest them. No fear of their being 
too rigid, for furs will advance beyond 
even their present high level, and with 
every country boy a trapper, the trouble 
will be to keep the animals from extinc- 

Let our lawmakers consider the matter 
carefully, decide what is best, then act 



How a Series of Psychological Experiments at New Haven Has 

Proved That the Instinct of the Small Boy Who "Hated" 

Calisthenics W as Right 

IN practically all the colleges of the country a certain amount of 
gymnasium work is required, at least during the first two years 
of the course. For years many teachers of calisthenics have devoted 
their major time and attention to making these exercises as attrac- 
tive and useful as possible. Yet they have usually been distasteful 
to the students with the exception of the comparatively few men 
who have acquired more than ordinary skill on some particular 
apparatus. Pleasure, the vital element in all exercise, has been 
lacking. Dr. Anderson, of Yale, one of the foremost exponents 
and teachers of gymnastic work in the college world, thinks that 
he has found the secret of this distaste and also the remedy. The 
article which follows tells how, why, and what. 

HEN a man has 
spent a lifetime 
building something 
up and has watched 
his structure grow 
from a modest be- 
ginning to a great, far-reaching edifice, 
it shows pretty broad mental perspective 
for him to turn around and help tear it 
down again. 

Professor William G. Anderson, di- 
rector of the Yale University gymnas- 
ium, and head of the Department of 
Physical Training, is broad — across the 
forehead as well as across the shoulders. 
In addition to being recognized as one 
of the half dozen authorities of the coun- 
try on physical training and gymnastic 
matters, Dr. Anderson, when some years 
younger, was one of the ablest exponents 
of difficult feats of skill. He can still 
do such exploits as the "giant swing" 
and "the flyaway" with a degree of ease 
and form which makes it difficult for 
the spectator to understand why it is 
that a good many other people have 
broken a good many bones trying to 

achieve these proofs of mastery over the 
horizontal bar. 

Under his direction, a raw, skinny 
freshman can receive a prescription for 
exact exercises, which, if followed 
throughout his undergraduate course, 
will enable him to duplicate the lines of 
figure w r hich artists are so fond of sketch* 
ing as the silhouette of the ideal college 
man, when the time comes for his ad- 
miring parents to witness him receiving 
his degree. Members of the faculty and 
business men in New Haven have reason 
to thank Dr. Anderson for a new lease 
of physical efficiency. 

The basis on which the Yale physical 
director built up his system at New 
Haven was the theory that calisthenic 
and gymnastic w T ork is the best means 
of attaining proper physical development 
for the average man. Yet, after years 
of experiment, Dr. Anderson has come 
to the conclusion that this basis is wrong. 
To obtain the best results he believes 
gymnasiums throughout the country 
must throw overboard the ideas which 
have been clung to in the past and build 




up a new system founded on the in- 
herent love for competitive play. 

It would be an injustice, not only to 
Dr. Anderson, but to many other cap- 
able physical directors throughout the 
country, to say that they have just 
awakened to the truths which are re- 
sponsible for a revolution in the physi- 
cal department at New Haven. The fact 
that ideal results were not being at- 
tained under the old S5^stem of calis- 
thenics has been plain for some time, 
and progressive gymnasium heads have 
been modifying their tactics accordingly. 

The particular interest which attaches 
to the conversion of Dr. Anderson is 
that by a series of psychological experi- 
ments he has produced scientific evidence 
which proves why the professors have 
been wrong and why the small boy who 
"hated" class drills in the gymnasium 
has been right. At Yale, it has never 
been difficult for a man anxious to com- 
pete for one of the athletic teams to be 
excused from forced work under the 
direction of the physical department. Be- 
ginning next fall, however, calisthenics 
at New Haven will be put in the back- 
ground and the entire effort will be con- 
centrated on getting every man in the 
University interested in some form of 
competitive sport. 

Out for the "Mastication Champion- 

The series of tests which have led 
Dr. Anderson to conclusions which will 
have a sweeping effect not only in this 
country but in Europe grew out of a 
good-natured controversy with Professor 
Irving Fisher, the Yale economist and 
investigator. Some years ago the two 
faculty members collaborated in a study 
on the "Effect of Diet on Endurance." 
Nine healthy Yale students volunteered 
for this experiment in which thorough 
mastication was one of the essentials. 
Dr. Anderson took charge of the various 
measurements by which the scientific 
conclusions were obtained. 

The nine men were divided into 
squads, which subsisted on various diets. 
Careful mastication was requested. Ex- 
ercise was in no case indulged in to a 
greater extent than had previously been 

the custom. In most cases it was less. 
That the undergraduates were consci- 
entious on this point was proven by the 
fact that most of them complained of 
feeling "logy." This overzeal was cor- 
rected, but in no case was exercise more 
systematic than previously. Practising 
on the endurance tests by which progress 
was measured was expressly forbidden. 

The students became so interested in 
the study that they were particular to 
avoid any exercise which could becloud 
the experiment. The tests themselves 
were too far apart to give any chance 
for their repetition to give "knack." 
They were too severe to count as bene- 
ficial exercise. The outcome, which at- 
tracted wide scientific attention at the 
time, showed that between the first test, 
recorded before they had received their 
mastication instructions, and the last 
one, recorded at the conclusion of the 
experiment, the men achieved great 
gains in endurance. 

"That we are correct in ascribing the 
results, especially in endurance, to diet- 
etic causes alone cannot reasonably be 
doubted when it is considered that no 
other factors of known significance were 
known to aid in this result," said Pro- 
fessor Fisher, in summing up his con- 
clusions on the experiment. "On the 
contrary, so far as the operation of other 
factors was concerned, these must have 
worked against rather than for the re- 
sults achieved. It is, of course, still 
possible that some unobserved element 
has crept into the case, to which, and 
not to the diet, the improvement in 
endurance was due; but in view of all 
the facts recited, this is extremely im- 

When Dr. Fisher and Dr. Anderson 
came to discuss the significance of the 
results attained, the Yale prrysical di- 
rector found himself at odds with the 
conclusions reached by his colleague in 
the Department of Economics. Dr. An- 
derson could not subscribe to the doc- 
trine that "no other factors of known 
significance were allowed to aid in the 
result." Having personally recorded the 
various measurements of individuals par- 
ticipating in the tests, he had been im- 
pressed with the remarkable degree of 
interest which each was taking in the 



progress of the experiment. The stu- 
dents were keen to know how their in- 
dividual results compared with that of 
the other fellow's. Something of a rivalry 
sprang up as to which man would win 
the "mastication championship." It 
looked to him as though the competitive 
element, instead of being a negligible 
quantity, had become the dominant ele- 
ment in the trial. 

"I believed an 'unobserved element' 
played some part in that endurance 
test," said Dr. Anderson, in describing 
his own viewpoint. "This element was 
attention to the tests which the men 
often gave unconsciously and consciously. 
They discussed the tests among them- 
selves frequently and gave thought to 

At the particular time when the two 
members of the faculty at New Haven 
were engaged in conducting these experi- 
ments, Dr. Anderson was particularly 
discouraged over the progress of his at- 
tempt to have that particular undergrad- 
uate generation graduated, with sound 
bodies as well as sound minds. In spite 
of everything which could be done to 
impress upon them the need for building 
up physical efficiency to fight life's bat- 
tle, he knew that the consensus of opin- 
ion among the student body w r as that the 
gymnasium course was a nuisance. 
Through his connection with other 
branches of constructive physical engi- 
neering, he realized that this spirit was 
not peculiar to New Haven. 

"Gym makes me tired. I'd rather 
play shinny," said the small boy. 

"Here's a nice afternoon when I'd 
like to get out and kick a football — and 
I've got to go to that cursed compul- 
sory gym. class and work my arms like 
an automaton," said the undergraduate. 

"I hate to keep putting on weight, but 
even the smell of a gymnasium annoys 
me," said the stout business man. 

It was no secret that they all cut 
classes whenever possible. This was a 
eontingency not presupposed in the sta- 
tistics. Physical directors consulted their 
theories. It was set forth by irrefutable 
evidence that if a person would go 
through certain exercises he could in- 
crease his enjoyment of life, improve his 
physical efficiency, add to his capacity for 

work, and lengthen the span of life. Yet 
the perverse human race showed a gen- 
eral tendency to ignore the opportunity. 
Even when at schools and universities, 
they were forced to go through the drills 
regularly, the results were generally dis- 
appointing. Some few men would bene- 
fit greatly, but most of them would not 
be improved to any extent. 

Thinking over the lack of interest in 
his gymnastic classes and making a men- 
tal comparison with the enthusiasm of 
the nine students who had laughingly 
set out to compete for the "mastication 
championship" caused Dr. Anderson to 
study his own problem from a new 

With and Without Thinking 

No argument was needed to prove a 
correlation of mind and body. As in the 
case of other live physical educators, 
Dr. Anderson recognized a co-operation 
between the physical and the pyschic. He 
needed no thesis to convince him of the 
subtle connection between the two ele- 
ments in the individual striving to do 
something for himself. In the case of 
the student or pupil working very often 
under compulsory direction, however, he 
realized that to obtain the best results it 
was necessary to demonstrate conclusive- 
ly how the mental state affects the work- 
ings of the body. Originally, with the 
intention of impressing upon his classes 
the importance of making their minds 
work while going through the calisthenic 
carriculum, the Yale physical director set 
out to arrive at scientific deductions 
which would prove the point with a con- 
clusiveness that would impress itself for- 
cibly even on the most happy-go-lucky 
New T Haven Freshman. After consider- 
able deliberation he initiated a series of 
experiments to show T "The Effect of 
Thought upon Gain in Muscular 

For the tests, the Yale director select- 
ed from the class men who were not at 
all keen on gymnastics. That W. G. 
Anderson does not lack a sense of humor 
w T as shown by the fact that' in order to 
prove his point he asked for volunteers 
who disliked gymnastic work sufficiently 
to be willing to become scientific experi- 



ments in return for being excused from 
the required class exercises. So there is 
every probability that the ten men he 
finally selected were the most discoura- 
ging propositions from the physical di- 
rector's point of view in New Haven. 

They were given the collegiate 
strength test and then told to keep away 
from the gymnasium. They were asked 
to report a week later at the same hour 
and were then requested to again essay 
the strength tests. Of the ten, five men 
had been given no intimation of the ba- 
sis on which the tests were being con- 
ducted. The other five were requested 
to think of the strength tests, but under 
no conditions to practise them. 

The contrasts in the records made by 
the two squads were surprising. In the 
case of the five men who had had their 
enthusiasm roused, a general gain in 
Strength was indicated, while in the case 
of the five who had not "thought" of the 
work a loss in strength efficiency was 
shown in the succeeding tests. One man 
who "thought" showed a gain of over 
230 points in the strength test total. The 
average gain was over sixty points. Suc- 
ceeding tests in which the process was 
reversed, the squad which previously had 
been uninformed being asked to think, 
and vice versa, upheld the general prin- 
ciples evolved from the first experiments. 

"In the case of the men who 'thought' 
of the work and then tried the tests, 
there was one extra factor working in 
their favor," said Dr. Anderson in dis- 
cussing the outcome. "The power of at- 
tention was helping them, while the 
others had only the practice of the trials. 
The entire series of experiments tended 
to prove the general proposition, how- 
ever. In the case of Mr. C, for in- 
stance, there was a gain of 157 units 
when he did not think and a gain of over 
170 units when he did. In the case of 
Mr. E., a particularly non-athletic type, 
by the way, there was a loss of 41 units 
when he did not think and a loss of only 
30 when he did, hence a gain of 10 units. 

"In making any study of this character 
we must all recognize the value of even 
limited practice, which means better ad- 
justment of the neuro-muscular machin- 
ery. I would not think of advancing the 
proposition that these tests of themselves 

prove that the total gain in strength was 
due only to thinking, because it was not. 
It was due to a combination of thought 
and unconscious muscular contraction 
plus the stimulus of interest, the gain by 
limited practice, and the spur of compe- 
tition. But that the 'unobserved element' 
mentioned by Professor Fisher and other 
students of the subject was not possibly 
but absolutely a factor in the result, I do 
consider evident." 

As far as his own problems were con- 
cerned Dr. Anderson realized that the 
experiments he had conducted did not 
show the way toward insuring any per- 
manent interest in gymnastic work. It 
merely proved scientifically something 
which had always been obvious — that the 
arousing of interest in the individual 
meant increased efficiency in strength and 
in endurance. At about this time a mem- 
ber of the Yale faculty who dropped in 
to see the physical director brought up a 
topic which every healthy spectator at 
games has discussed — the after-fatigue 
caused by "working with the competi- 
tors." This man, who at the time was 
projecting some research work of an 
exacting nature, remarked that he had 
made up his mind not to attend any of 
the football games on the season's 

Exercise in Looking on 

"There is nothing I enjoy more," said 
the caller, who had participated in ath- 
letics during his undergraduate career. 
"I will miss going out to the Field these 
fine Saturdays, but I find that the end 
of the game leaves me more exhausted 
than a week's work." 

The sympathy and understanding 
which this man had for the sport was 
such that as a spectator he experienced 
almost as great fatigue of mind and body 
as though he had actually been a partici- 
pant. Impressed with the results of his 
other experiments, Dr. Anderson decided 
to attempt to throw additional light on 
the relation between musculature and the 

"In these tests, I did not ask the sub- 
ject to exercise," says Dr. Anderson. "I 
merely asked him to watch attentively 
for a period of five or more minutes an- 



other man who was contracting the biceps 
against a weight. The observers main- 
tained stoutly that they did no work at 
the time, but the evidence proved other- 

The greatest gain under these condi- 
tions was made by a Mr. C, a Freshman 
in the Sheffield Scientific School. His 
arm was measured carefully with a Gu- 
lick spring tape. The locality was out- 
lined in ink and a series of measurements 
were previously made in order to get the 
degree of variation when the elbow was 
flexed. The measurements of this stu- 
dent showed an astonishing amount of 
sympathetic energy expended. 

"C. was a young man of the type with 
ability to concentrate mind upon any 
given proposition," explained Mr. An- 
derson. "The increase in the size of his 
biceps under these conditions was par- 
ticularly notable. In practically every 
case the measurements left no doubt as 
to the fact that watching another man 
closely while he was exercising caused a 
sympathetic expansion of muscular ma- 
chinery in the system of the spectator. A 
second test was made with a sensitive 
manometer attached to a curved tube 
containing a mercury column. The on- 
looker held the bulb in the closed hand 
while watching the worker. There was 
a noticeable displacement of mercury due 
to unconscious pressure on the manometer 
during the trial. When the weights be- 
came almost too heavy for the worker 
and he was obliged to strain the muscles 
the variation in the position of the spec- 
tator's muscles was particularly appar- 

In addition to the experiments de- 
scribed, Dr. Anderson conducted others, 
all of which tended to emphasize the fact 
that the regular gymnastic and calis- 
thenic schedule did not bear results be- 
cause the men compelled to adhere to it 
did not have their hearts in the work. 
Mechanical following of prescribed ex- 
ercises was fruitless of results because, 
while all students could be compelled to 
do the setting up drill at the same time, 
nothing could prevent their thoughts 
from being scattered. Instead of think- 
ing of the exercise and what it was in- 
tended for, the undergraduates could con- 
centrate upon any other topic. So Dr. 

Anderson has finally come to the conclu- 
sion that the only kind of efficient spur 
toward physical development for the av- 
erage individual is competitive sport. 

"Of the two great instincts that impel 
men to act, the fighting or competitive 
is all-powerful," he says. "I have come 
to the conclusion that there is little to be 
stimulated in formal gymnastics where 
the boy simply follows the dictates of a 
teacher. In competitive sport he can and 
must see, think, judge, decide, and react. 
He cannot go through the motions with- 
out thinking. It is certain that, if he is 
a normal human being, he must call upon 
those extra reserves of energy which in 
the case of a gymnastic exercise which 
does not interest him are simply out of 
the play." 

Significant of the general tendency all 
over the world to get away from the hot- 
house variety of athletics are the observa- 
tions made by Dr. Anderson on a trip 
abroad made some months ago for the 
purpose of studying conditions there. In 
addition to a stay at various other cen- 
ters of physical training, he spent a num- 
ber of weeks at the Royal Institute, 
Stockholm, generally recognized as one 
of the cradles of the principles of the art 
and the home of the famous Ling sys- 
tem. The Yale director had tried the 
experiment of introducing this system at 
New Haven, but it proved entirely too 
complicated, the student body showing a 
universal lack of interest in the endless 
detail involved. Anderson found that the 
lure of the Olympic Games, the last set 
of which were staged at Stockholm, had 
caused a general feeling of impatience 
with the complicated calisthenic exer- 
cises. More and more of the younger 
generation are going in for competitive 

Roo?n for All 

The development which makes the 
contemplated change at New Haven par- 
ticularly timely is that in the near future 
the new Yale athletic fields, now under 
construction, should be ready for under- 
graduate tenancy. This will provide fa- 
cilities so that all students can, when 
the weather is right, take part in all va- 
rieties of out-of-door sports. The main 



purpose of Dr. Anderson and his brother 
and able assistant, Henry S. Anderson, 
who is floor director of the Yale gymna- 
sium, will be to interest the first year men 
in some form of competitive athletics, 
not necessarily as candidates for one of 
the 'varsity teams, but as enthusiasts try- 
ing to do something in the physical realm 
better than someone else. 

Instead of dividing up the student 
body into large calisthenic squads, leagues 
will be formed in a large number of 
sports, a schedule will be worked out, 
and every man given a chance to pit his 
physical abilities against his fellow's. 
Basketball, handball, volleyball, squash, 
boxing, fencing, wrestling, football, soc- 
cer, baseball, and all forms of track and 
field athletics will be embraced in the 
g5'-mnasium curriculum, the ultimate aim 
being to dovetail the indoor work into 
a preparatory course toward sending the 
student body out of doors to keep the 
grass from getting too long on the great 
new athletic plant which is being built 
around the new "bowl," where Yale 
will at last have room to seat its foot- 
ball thousands. 

Dr. Anderson has by no means 
reached the conclusion that gymnastics 
and calisthenics should be entirely 
thrown into the discard. With the at- 
tention of the student once attracted 
to his own physical condition, he feels 

that instead of his having to send for 
delinquents, men who are shown by their 
own lack of efficiency in competition will 
come to him and ask for a gymnasium 
prescription which will build them up 
for better work in the competition that 
they select. 

While other heads of college physical 
departments have not given evidence of 
having weighed the problem in the bal- 
ance as scientifically as Prof. Anderson, 
there has been a steadily increasing tend- 
ency to get away from the fixed gym- 
nastic routine which was followed* so 
mathematically some years ago. C. V. P. 
Young, an old football veteran, now 
physical director at Cornell, has for 
some time been pioneering in the work 
of putting red blood as well as science 
into the gymnastic system. Dr. Meylan 
at Columbia, Prof. Walter Magee of 
the University of California, Dr. Ray- 
croft at Princeton, R. Tait MacKenzie 
of the University of Pennsylvania, and 
other leading men engaged in the work, 
have been smashing old calisthenic idols 
and shaping their courses, not by pre- 
scribing the exercises which, if faith- 
fully followed, would produce physical 
perfection, but by counting as the essen- 
tial preliminary awakening the competi- 
tive athletic instinct. 

Ps)'chology has demonstrated that the 
email boy who "hates" gym is right. 



How Manufacturers Have Helped the Camper by Reducing Bulk 
without Destroying Nutritive Values 

'OT so very long ago the 
man who went into a new 
country, whether on a 
canoe trip, on a tramp, on 
horseback, whether for 
exploration, or adventure, 
or sport, gauged the extent of his pil- 
grimage by the number of pounds of food 
he could carry. If he knew his business 
his grub-sack contained a judicious selec- 
tion of the most nourishing and at the 
same time lightest foods. Generally he 
took such staples as beans and cornmeal, 
and a little flour, tea, sugar, salt, and a 
bit of salt meat, relying on his gun or his 
rod to supply a larger diet of meat and 
fish, and on the country itself to afford 
vegetable products in the shape of ber- 
ries, etc. But as the old order has 
changed in most things, it has also 
changed in tr : camper's larder, and 
nowadays it is possible for him who 
heeds the call of the Red Gods to take 
the trail with about as complete an as- 
sortment of foods as graces his home 
table, and in so doing to carry but half 
the weight of the old orthodox beans, 
cornmeal, flour, etc. 

Perhaps the greatest boon to the 
camper, cruiser, or other prober of the 
unsettled places has been the dehydra- 

tion of food products — in other words, 
the removal of all water from vegetables 
and fruits and their preservation in a 
dried state without impairment of their 
nutritive values. There are a number 
of manufacturers of dehydrated food 
products in this country to-day, all of 
whom turn out most of the standard 
vegetables and fruits in dehydrated 
form. When you consider that the re- 
moval of the water from the average 
vegetable leaves it but one twelfth as 
heavy as in its natural condition, you 
get some idea of the advantages of de- 
hydrated food on long journeys where 
grub for the entire trip must be toted. 

Some question was raised in the in- 
fancy of dehydration of foods as to 
whether their cell structure, and hence 
their nutritive value, was impaired by 
the drying process, but general opinion 
to the contrary now prevails. In drying 
the products care is taken not to break 
down cell structure, and when the dried 
foods have been soaked in water until 
they have once more taken up their 
natural quantity of moisture and have 
regained their specific gravity, they are 
considered just as good as before they 
were put through the process. 

The homely but nutritive bean has 




long been the favorite vegetable for long 
trips because of its lightness in compari- 
son to other products of equal nourish- 
ment, and because it "went farther" 
when cooked. Thirty pounds of beans 
was more than the allotment by a good 
deal that the average man allowed his 
pack to contain when starting on even a 
long trip. Nowadays he could carry 
the same amount of beans in dehydrated 
state at a weight of only two pounds. 

Here are the relative proportions of 
some of the staple products in natural 
and dehydrated states. 

Dry Fresh 

Apples 1 lb. equals 8 lbs. 

Cabbage " " 18 

Corn " " 12 

Carrots " " 13 

Eggplant " " 16 

Pumpkins " " 12 

Potatoes " " 6 

Onions " " 12 

Peas " " 8 

Spinach " " 14 

Tomatoes " " 20 

It requires but a moderate stretch of 
the imagination to behold, when these 
proportions are considered, a camp larder 
replete with all the staples of a first-class 
hostelry, ample to last a month, and still 
well within the carrying ability of two 
ordinary citizens. 

Powdered Eggs and Milk 

In addition to the dehydrating of 
vegetables and fruits and their conse- 
quent peculiar adaption to the camper's 
outfit, science has accomplished a num- 
ber of other stunts that the wanderers 
of the wilds have had reason to be 
thankful for. Among these has been 
the reduction of eggs to a powder which 
when mixed with water takes on once 
more the consistency of the natural prod- 
uct and is palatable as well as nutri- 
tious. More than one weary camper has 
opened a packet of egg powder weigh- 
ing a few ounces as night shut him alone 
in the forest, and over his camp fire has 
soon conjured into being a marvelous 
dish of scrambled eggs. 

Manufacturers of egg powder declare 
that one pound of their product is equiv- 
alent to four dozen eggs. If you want 
two eggs you use one and one half tea- 

spoonfuls of the powder, three teaspoon- 
fuls for four eggs, and so on. 

Then there is that other concentrated 
staple, milk powder. It is made from 
raw milk, from which all water has 
been removed, leaving merely the milk 
solids. Four tablespoons in water equal 
a pint of milk. With egg powder and 
a dash of milk made from milk powder, 
a mighty palatable omelet can be pre- 

Milk powder is one of the latest 
boons to the camper. Years ago when 
condensed milk in cans, and later evapo- 
rated milks, made their appearance, they 
seemed to have established an acme of 
concentration that would be impossible 
to surpass. But cans of condensed milk 
were heavy, though they did undeniably 
put milk within the grasp of men in the 
wilds who otherwise would have been 
hopelessly out of reach of this useful 
type of food. A pound tin of milk pow- 
der will color a good many more cups 
of coffee than a pound can of condensed 

With the coming of concentrated milk 
and concentrated eggs, have arrived also 
concentrated coffee and tea. The coffee 
is the essence of the coffee berry with all 
the waste parts removed. It comes in 
the shape of a fine, light, sifted powder, 
and a teaspoonful put in a cup of hot 
water makes a cup of beverage in a 
second, without boiling or other delay. 

Concentrated or tabloid tea is made 
by compressing tea leaves from which 
the heavier stems have been removed. 
It comes in little cubes, of almost negli- 
gible weight, and one cube makes a cup. 
In a four-ounce packet of such tea there 
are one hundred cups. 

In Germany there is a concern whose 
products have just begun to find their 
way into the larders of the campers in 
this country. This concern prepares 
much of the concentrated food used by 
the Germany army. In little cloth sacks, 
looking like detached sausages, or for 
that matter, like the old cotton bags 
of tobacco we used to see, comes a dried 
compound, which, when wate/ is added 
and the mass heated, develops into a 
thick, heavy, nutritious soup. This is 
erbswurst and is compounded of beans, 
peas, lentils, corn meal, meat, and sea- 


soning. This food can be prepared in 
many ways. As mentioned before it can 
be thinned out to soup, or it can be 
eaten as gruel or porridge, or just a lit- 
tle water may be added, and it can be 
fried as rice or cornmeal cakes are fried. 
In all forms it is palatable and exception- 
ally nourishing. 

Here is a sample grub kit, using 3 good 
combination of concentrated and regula- 
tion foods, for four persons who wish 
to go fairly light on a two weeks' camp- 
ing tour or cruise: 

Oatmeal, 5 lbs. 
Wheat flour, 15 lbs. 
Cornmeal, 10 lbs. 
Concentrated sweetening, 
Sugar, 10 lbs. 
Coffee, concentrated, 1 lb. 
Tea, tabloid, 4 oz. 
Lard, 2 lbs. 


Baking powder, 1 lb. 
Bacon, 8 lbs. 
Salt, 2 lbs. 
Pepper, 1 oz. 
Soups, concentrated, 1 lb. 
Cabbage, dehydrated, 1 lb. 
Tomatoes, dehydrated, 1 lb. 
Onions, dehydrated, 1 lb. 
Prunes, dehydrated, 1 lb. 
Spinach, dehydrated, 1 lb. 
Potatoes, dehydrated, 5 lbs. 
Egg powder, 1 lb. 
Milk powder, 2 lbs. 
Erbswurst, 2 lbs. 
Raisins, 1 lb. 

The total weight of this kit is seventy- 
six pounds. Were fresh or non-concen- 
trated products used to replace the de- 
hydrated articles and to render equal 
nourishment, the weight of the outfit 
would be increased about 215 pounds, 
or far beyond the carrying ability of the 





American A postscript to some re- 

Mone P1C mar ^ s m tn * s department in 
a recent issue on various 
misunderstandings abroad of the con- 
duct of athletics in this country comes 
in a letter from Mr. Robert M. Thomp- 
son. Mr. Thompson was president of 
the American Olympic Committee at 
the Stockholm games, and still holds 
that position. Therefore what he has to 
say is authoritative in a final sense. 
Touching the matter of "lavish expendi- 
ture" which seems to loom large in the 
minds of some of our foreign critics, 
Mr. Thompson says: 

"The American Olympic Committee 
spends no money whatever on the prep- 
aration of a team. It provides tryout 
games at which any athlete can present 
himself and the winners compete at a 
final, the winners of which constitute the 
Olympic team. This, as I understand 
it, is the old idea of the Olympic games. 
It is thorough democracy of sport, in 
which the best man wins. After the 
team is selected the committee takes 
charge and pays the entire expense con- 
nected with the games; but as the final 
tryout is only a day or two before the 
departure for the games, you will see 
that any expenditure made is on the 
games and not in the. preparation for the 
games. Our last Olympic team con- 
tained men who were prize-winners, but 
who were quite unknown in the world 
of sport before the tryouts." 

Why Why, then, do the Amer- 

w-V icans win? This is not a 
Win? i-i • i 

rhetorical question purely, 

nor is it a burst of patriotic ardor 


There is an explanation, not in detail 
merely, but in spirit, in broad terms. 
Here is what Mr. Thompson has to 
say on this point, quoting in part from 
two letters recently received from him 
at this office: 

"We furnish splendid athletes because 
the interest in athletics begins in the pri- 
mary schools, or even before them, and 
continues right through the univer- 
sities. To my mind the advantage of 
the Olympic games is that they keep the 
Olympic idea before the youngsters, 
make them lead steady lives, with a con- 
stant high ideal before them, so devel- 
oping both mind and body. A country 
that can produce a team as good as the 
Olympic team that went to Stockholm 
(and by good I mean not only athleti- 
cally but mentally and morally) is a 
good country. 

"There is published in Paris a month- 
ly pamphlet, devoted to the Olympic 
committees, which is edited or controlled 
by the president of the International 
Committee, Baron Pierre de Coubertin. 
In, I think, the September number, 
1912, there was an editorial referring 
to our team, in which warning was 
given to the other nations that if they 
hoped to compete with America it must 
be not through mere attention to phys- 
ical details, but by acquiring the spirit 
of patriotism which existed in the Amer- 
ican team. As he expressed it, every 
man on the team felt that he was acting 
not for himself but for the country he 
represented, and so submitted himself to 
discipline and to regulations, and when 
he competed put in the last ounce that 
was in him, not to win honor for him- 

the world of sport 


self but for his country. I believe this 
description was absolutely true." 

Gould It is a remarkable record 

cSTion that J ay Gould has t0 his 
credit. His recent victory 

over George F. Covey, claimed to be 
the professional court tennis champion 
of the world, was only one more in a 
long string marked by only a single de- 
feat in an important match. That de- 
feat, be it noted, was suffered when he 
was a boy of seventeen. The fact that 
he can now lay claim to the title of open 
court tennis champion of the world is 
not so important as it might seem, al- 
though valid enough. Presumably if 
there were any game which only two 
men could or would play, and those two 
arranged a tournament, the winner 
would be champion of the world at that 
game. What concerns us more, how- 
ever, is this demonstration of amateur 
ability against a professional in a field 
where the professional has usually 
reigned supreme. In court tennis suc- 
cess is preeminently dependent on prac- 
tice — and then more practice. There is 
where the professional scores. It is his 
business to practice; that is what he is 
paid for. Therefore the crown of glory to 
the amateur is by so much the greater 
when he carries off the victory. Gould 
has shown again — as did Mr. Ouimet 
last fall — that there is no magic in the 
title of professional. As another cham- 
pion once remarked, "The bigger they 
are the harder they fall." 

Those Wars and rumors of wars 

ConfracH are convuls i n g tne baseball 
world this spring. The ad- 
vent of the Federal League has brought 
confusion and discord where once were 
peace and order. With the merits of 
the case we have no special concern. The 
destinies of the Federal League are on 
the knees of the gods — in this case the 
"fans." If the Federal teams play good 
ball presumably a considerable number 
of people will pay good money to see 
them. If not, not. But there are one 
or two minor considerations that are dis- 
tinctly interesting. We cannot sympa- 
thize in the least with the outraged atti- 
tude that many of the supporters of the 

two major leagues are adopting. There 
is nothing sacred about a baseball league 
that we have been able to discover. If 
it is a sport, then the field of sport is 
proverbially open to all, from cook's son 
to son of a belted earl. If it is a busi- 
ness, then anyone with money enough to 
support a team and judgment enough to 
get the players would seem to be free to 
enter the field. The allegation of sa- 
cred contracts broken by the players who 
have "jumped" does not appear sound. 
The law of contracts is measurably 
clear, and the courts have never shown 
any unwillingness to rule when cases 
were brought properly to their attention. 
A baseball player who breaks his con- 
tract is liable to suit for such a breach in 
the same way as is any other man who 
commits a similar offense, no more and 
no less. We venture the prophecy that 
a test case would demonstrate the truth 
of this statement. The question of the 
peculiar validity of a player's contract 
as against other forms of contracts is a 
vague one and should be adjudicated. 
The attitude of holy horror is not ten- 
able; neither is the appellation of outlaw 
as employed in this connection. A man 
who breaks a contract is not, ipso facto, 
an outlaw, and no amount of argument 
or epithet can make him one. He may 
be subject to judgment for damages, but 
the law provides means for determining 
this fact and for assessing the amount 
of such damages. Therefore let us have 
less loose talk and a little action. 

Virginia The State of Virginia has 
Marching seen j ts opportunity — and 

backwards .... r^., T T 

avoided it. 1 he Hart- 
White Game Bill, providing for the 
proper organization of a State Game 
and Fish Commission, with local depu- 
ties, with restrictions on the killing and 
marketing of game, was defeated in the 
House of Delegates by a narrow major- 
ity. Apparently the people of Virginia 
would rather kill their game than keep 
it, would rather sell it than see it alive. 
The ostensible reason for the defeat of 
the bill was that the State Game Com- 
missioner would have too much political 
power through his ability to appoint 
three or four hundred local wardens. 
By the same token Virginia should abol- 



ish the office ot Governor. It is idle 
to speculate on the causes of the defeat 
of this bill. As usual in such cases, it 
was a combination of indifference, igno- 
rance and selfishness, a triumvirate that 
is hard to beat. But how does it leave 

No Having refused to be ruled 

Warden Dy a State commissioner, 
Virginia now finds herself 
back in her old condition in which 
the local wardens are appointed by 
local magistrates. There is -no central 
system and no head warden. To be 
sure, there is a fish commissioner, but it 
is reported that his activities are practi- 
cally confined to the tidewater counties, 
so that the inland waters are left to the 
tender mercies of the fishermen. In one- 
third of the counties of the State there 
are no wardens at all, and it is impos- 
sible to discover a single case of a sal- 
aried warden in any county. The war- 
den of the county containing one of the 
large cities of the State has made one 
arrest in five years, and that despite the 
fact that quail are sold contrary to the 
law in practically all the towns and 
cities. There are no resident hunting li- 
censes, and in most cases no one to col- 
lect the non-resident fees. It is reported 
in a private letter from a man in a po- 
sition to know that the State at pres- 
ent collects about $125 a year from the 
latter source, whereas they should be 
collecting about $5,000. 

Good Turkey, deer and quail are 
Game killed out of season contin- 
ually and are shipped to 
Washington, Baltimore and Philadelphia 
markets contrary to the Virginia law 
prohibiting the shipping of game. The 
United States Biological Survey in- 
formed our Virginia correspondent that 
last year there were shipped out of the 
State of Virginia for Washington and 
Baltimore markets 50,000 quail. The 
same authority gave some very interest- 
ing facts relative to the type of guns 
used on the eastern shore for the killing 
of wild fowl. Dr. Palmer, of the Sur- 
vey, showed a photograph of one gun 
more than thirteen feet long shooting 
two pounds of BB shot to the load. It 

is stated that these guns are manufac- 
tured in Virginia and that there is a 
considerable local demand for them. 
The sale of quail is prohibited within 
the State, but turkey, deer and wild fowl 
may be sold without restriction. Under 
the present laws the hounding of deer is 
permitted. There is no restriction 
against the killing of does or fawns, nor 
is there any bag or creel limit. 

One Naturally the sale of game 
Mans - s a i arge anc j flourishing 

I estimony , . , , , . 

business throughout the 
State, and here probably lies the secret 
of the opposition to the proposed law. 
We quote directly from a letter received 
recently : 

"I have seen one man bring in seventy 
pounds of large-mouth bass in one day's 
fishing. The markets here furnish large 
and small-mouth bass constantly, and I 
have seen as many as five barrels of 
large-mouth bass in one fish dealer's 
shop, said bass ranging from five to seven 
inches in length. These are sold as 'pan 
bass.' The ducks and geese on the east- 
ern shore are netted by the thousands, 
and these netted fowls are then hung on 
racks and shot in order that the pur- 
chaser may find the shot in the fowl. 
This is authentic and comes from the 
U. S. Biological Survey. We have no 
dog laws in Virginia. The dogs roam 
at large throughout the breeding season 
of the birds, and hundreds of thousands 
of song birds and game birds have their 
nests broken up and their young caught. 
To sum up the situation, we have a few 
game and fish laws in Virginia, but ab- 
solutely no one to enforce these laws, 
and this means that the State might as 
well be without them in so far as results 
are concerned. Virginia ranks about 
third from the bottom among the un- 
protected States. Our association places 
Mississippi at the bottom, North Caro- 
lina next to the bottom, and Virginia 
third from the bottom in the list of 
forty-four States. Virginia is one of the 
four States in the Union having no game 
commissioner or warden system." 

So stands the case for the Old Do- 
minion. We trust that her citizens are 
thoroughly appreciative of their proud 



A Mere Germany has prohibited the 

CHrlion nuntin g of the bfrd °* P ara- 
dise in New Guinea for a 
period of eighteen months. It was the 
first intention of the Government to put 
a stop to it altogether, but later reports 
convinced them that the birds were in 
no immediate danger of extinction with 
proper regulation after a short period 
of protection. At the risk of seeming 
to be a rude and thoroughly uncouth 
male being, we venture the assertion that 
no good and useful purpose of sport or 
anything else is served by permitting the 
killing of plumage birds anywhere in the 
world at any time. We cannot expect 
the milliners or their customers to agree 
with this, but a feather on the hat that 
means a dead bird in some tropical forest 
is a lingering relic of barbarism. To be 
sure tastes differ, and down in the Solo- 
mon Islands feathers are understood to 
be de rigueur, at least on ceremonial oc- 
casions, but we should give at least that 
much evidence of superiority to the Sol- 
omon Islanders. 

When I n the good old days travel 
W "h d was a * earsome thing. None 
but the most venturesome 
and hardy or those laid under grievous 
compulsion dared attempt it. And 
when they did it was with fear and 
trembling. In proof thereof read these 
injunctions to travelers on outfit and 
behavior written early in the seven- 
teenth century and published recently by 
the Automobile Club of Philadelphia: 
"Among the requisites should be a 
hymn-book, a watch or a sun-dial. If a 
watch, not a striker, for that warns the 
wicked that you have money. A com- 
pass. Take handkerchiefs, as they come 
handy when you perspire. If the tour- 
ist cannot take many shirts let those he 
carries be washed; he will find it more 
comfortable. Let him also take a linen 
overall to put over his clothes upon 
going to bed lest the bed linen be dirty. 
Let him learn somewhat both of medi- 
cine and cookery. Never journey without 
something to eat in your pocket, if only 
to throw to dogs when attacked by them. 
In an inn bedroom which contains big 
pictures look behind the latter to see if 
they do not conceal a secret door or a 

window. Women should travel not at 
all and married men not much." 

Antoine Up in Canada they tell 

m /^l weird and wonderful tales 

No Chances , , , , 

about the strength and stay- 
ing powers of the French-Canadian 
guides on portage. A story has been 
going the rounds in Montreal lately 
about a test that was made to determine 
the relative powers of the French and 
other races. To settle an argument one 
of the newspapers offered a prize of 
$200 to the man who would carry a 
200-pound load the farthest, without put- 
ting it down to rest. The article se- 
lected was salt as combining the qual- 
ities of weight and reduced bulk in about 
the proper proportions. The start was 
made from the newspaper office and 
there was a large list of entries. By the 
terms the men were to walk straight 
away in a prescribed direction, and the 
one going the farthest entered into im- 
mediate enjoyment of the $200. At 3 
o'clock they were under way. By 6 
o'clock all the aspirants - had fallen by 
the wayside except three French-Cana- 
dians, who were still going strong. Two 
of these dropped out a little before 8, and 
the judges rushed forward to tell An- 
toine, the winner, that the money was 
his. "Where's the two hundred, then?" 
inquired Antoine in appropriate Drum- 
mondian patois. "You'll get it at the 
newspaper office," replied the judges. 
"Just jump in the automobile and ride 
back with us." "Not me," declared the 
hardy Antoine. "I don't put down this 
pack till I get that money" — and he 
turned and carried the salt back to the 
starting point. If you ask about this in 
Montreal they'll show you the salt. 

Real When the liner called at 



Kingston one day late in 
February on her way back 
from the Isthmus there was a rush 
among the passengers for newspapers to 
discover what great things had hap- 
pened in the States during their ab- 
sence. Prominently displayed on the 
front page of the Kingston Gleaner was 
one single bit of American news — the 
retirement of Charles W. Murphy from 
the management of the Chicago Cubs. 



They may play cricket in Jamaica, but 
they have also a very clear idea of the 
mental inclinations of many of their 
American visitors as the days draw on 
toward opening day. 

A Great What is an amateur ? A 

Prize tremendous amount of con- 
Contest , , i . 
troversy revolves about this 

question. The dictionary is of little use. 
The Standard wisely evades the issue 
in this suave fashion: "In athletic 
sports, an athlete who has not engaged 
in contests open to professional athletes, 
or used any athletic art as a livelihood. 
The term varies in usage, and is usu- 
ally more specifically defined in the reg- 
ulations of athletic associations, but the 
definition is liable to change." How's 
that for coppering the bet both .ways? 
But it should be possible to come a little 
nearer the mark and we have determined 
upon a daring step. We will give a 
year's subscription free to the man — we 
use the term generically ; women and 
even children are not barred — who can 
furnish us with the best definition of an 
amateur in the fewest words, we to be 
the judge. The definition must express 
the inward spirit of the word and must 
also be capable of specific general applica- 
tion without obvious injustice. If you 
decide to enter this world-wide contest 
we are of the opinion that you will earn 
the prize, whether you win it or not. 

Two Through an oversight w T e 
0^ p "L t omitted to state that the pho- 
tographs used with Mr. 
John Oskison's article on Deer Hunting 
with the Apaches in April were taken 
by Mr. John T. McCutcheon. We 
hereby tender our apologies to Mr. [Mc- 
Cutcheon and also our thanks for an ex- 
cellent collection of illustrations. The 
same demon of carelessness was respon- 
sible for the omission from Mr. Clark C. 
Griffith's article of the line "Arranged 
by Edward L. Fox." 




"His is a steady game, with 
flashes of brilliancy, unfor- 
tunately followed frequently 
by lackadaisical play which at times 
makes him the victim of a really much 
inferior golfer." These burning words 

are written of Mr. Frederick Herreshoff 
by the American correspondent of an 
English golf publication. How for- 
tunate it is that Mr. Herreshoff 's play 
is steady. Otherwise the "flashes of 
brilliancy, followed frequently by lacka- 
daisical play," might lead his friends to 
place their money on the other man. 

The New Word comes from the other 

ChaTien e s *^ e t ^ iat ^ e Shamrock IF, 
the new Lipton cup challen- 
ger, is to go back to composite construc- 
tion instead of being a metal boat. She 
will have steel frames, wooden planking, 
and probably a metal deck. Mr. Nichol- 
son states that his reason for this wooden 
planking is that he can get a smoother 
surface than with metal plates, which 
are so thin that the rivet heads could not 
be countersunk without weakening the 
plates — loose rivets being a constant 
source of trouble in previous cup racers, 
many of which leaked badly. It is stat- 
ed also that Shamrock IF is to have a 
centerboard. In this respect she is the 
first British challenger that has ever used 
this purely American device. This does 
not mean that she will be of the con- 
ventional centerboard type. Modern 
centerboard boats are practically keel 
boats as regards shape and design, merely 
having a small board working through 
the lead bulb on the keel to give addi- 
tional lateral plane in going to wind- 
ward. Under our measurement rule 
draft is restricted, a penalty being placed 
on excessive depth, so that additional 
depth and lateral plane can only be had 
by use of the centerboard, which is not 
taxed. Though the racing promises to be 
most interesting, the chances are all in 
our favor that the cup will stay on this 
side of the Atlantic. In Shamrock IF 
Nicholson is designing his first boat un- 
der our measurement rule, whereas our 
designers have had eight years' exper- 
ience in it. They have watched its op- 
eration, and are able to do things under 
it on the chance of producing a faster 
boat, which one not familiar with it 
would not dare to undertake. In addi- 
tion to this we have three boats, of which 
the fastest, presumably, will be chosen, 
whereas Sir Thomas is having but one 
boat built. 


You're going into play ? An instant more 

And yours the eyes of thousands. There's for you 

Huge plaudits Welcoming the needed score, 

Deep disapproval at misplays they view, 

And, best of all, the eager silence there 

When, swift from bat or hand, you hang in air. 

— Anonymous. 











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Photographs by Julian A. Dimock 

TN this article Mr. Dimock returns to his first and dearest love, 
* the tarpon. This time the Camera Man was equipped not only 
with his true and tried machine of earlier days, but also with a 
moving picture camera. He was to try what could be done in 
fixing the leaps of the fighting fish on the little strip of celluloid 
that wound through the small box. It had been tried before, but 
not with success. Where the professionals failed, this amateur, 
who knew nothing of moving pictures but much of tarpon and of 
straight photography, was destined to succeed. It is an introduc- 
tion to a new sport under wellnigh ideal conditions. 

ANY have been my trips 
to Florida, but the last 
one had a new motif — 
we carried a motion- 
picture camera. My role 
-**• on previous occasions had 
been to supply "human interest" for the 
Camera Man, and take any risk at his 
command, with full knowledge that any 
awkward pose might be preserved for- 
ever. But now conditions promised to 
be still more trying. Formerly it took 
the Camera Man some seconds to change 
his plates, and I had this respite, but 
now his crank would register a con- 
tinuous performance. How paralyzing 
to consider that 1,000 exposures a min- 
ute might be made and forever would 
our gyrations be perpetuated and broad- 
cast the impressions be sown! 

The situation was serious, but there 

Copyright, 1914, by Outing Pu 

was one means of escape. I would act 
as assistant to the Camera Man and thus 
keep out of the limelight. My friends 
should be the actors and I would help 
to record their antics! 

We received our camera and films at 
the railroad station, ten minutes before 
the starting of our train for Florida. 
We had a few minutes' instruction as 
to working the machinery of the camera, 
which was simple enough. The film 
was to be threaded from one spool in 
the camera to another in a way made 
obvious by the construction of the ma- 
chine. When the scene was to be pic- 
tured the lens was pointed toward it 
and the handle turned twice every 
second. This exposed one foot of film 
every second on which sixteen pictures 
were taken. 

There was nothing to trouble us so 

blishing Co. All rights reserved. [265] 



The illustrations on this and on 
the page facing it were made from 
negatives clipped from the moving 
picture film. Considering the speed 
of the leaping fish and the fact that 
the pictures were made for reproduc- 
tion on the screen and not on the 
printed page, they are surprisingly 

far. Either of us could turn a crank, 
and the Camera Man was the best in the 
business of taking snapshots at tarpon 
in the air. But another point was in- 
sisted upon which if enforced would 
knock things endwise for us. It was 
stated to be an imperative condition that 
the camera be screwed to a tripod which 
must then have a solid foundation. A 
battle with the Boers could be faked 
among Jersey hills or a tame lion pose 
for a bloodthirsty beast, of the wild, 
but there are no tame tarpon to be hired 
nor actors who can dress the part. No, 
the motion-picture machine must be held 
as we had held other cameras and the 
chance be taken of the motion destroy- 
ing the picture. 

We had often suggested to motion- 
picture men that they get a series of 
tarpon pictures, but some of them 
doubted the profit of the thing and 
others its possibility. Yet when we 
arrived at Fort Myers, ready for the 
tarpon cruise, we found the profession- 
als had been there and hired a big out- 
fit for the work. I was told that the 
camera had been fixed upon a large boat 
while the hired guides fished in their 
smaller boats around it, but that the 
result had been failure. It remained 
to be seen whether we could succeed 
while violating the rules of the motion- 
picture game better than the profession- 
als while observing them. 

There are two ways of fishing for 
tarpon — one suits the sybarite and the 
invalid, the other suits me. 

The trend of the times is toward 
specialization and even our sports are 
syndicated. A tarpon guild has arisen 
and individual initiative has been 



crushed. The idea has permeated fish- 
ing circles that to catch tarpon one must 
first go to some stylish dealer to be 
fitted with, or to, an outfit, as a tailor 
might dress him for a dinner. There- 
after, from some costly inn near fash- 
ionable fishing grounds he must submit 
himself to a so-called guide at a wage of 
six dollars a day, plus fancy charges for 
bait and such other expenses as a prac- 
tical imagination can suggest. 

More and more has the game grown 
costly as the wonderful sport has be- 
come known. Houseboats have been 
constructed, fitted with every conveni- 
ence and luxury and manned by meu 
with knowledge of the coast and of 
many of the haunts of the tarpon. 

When the sportsman's private guide has 
had his breakfast and his smoke, if wind, 
weather and tide meet his approval, he 
fills the tank of his launch with gaso- 
line and takes his customer aboard. 
Churning the water with his three- 
horse-power engine he threads with his 
craft the channels of river or pass, while 
the fisherman sits in his easy, revolving 
arm chair, trailing from his costly tackle 
a strip of mullet as bait. 

I have no thought to disparage the 
game, which is really worth the candle. 
If the season is well chosen and the cap- 
tain knows his business, which most of 
them do, the sportsman will get plenty 
of tarpon with a minimum of exertion. 

The practical w T ay to get into the 
game is to charter a houseboat from any 
port on the west coast of Florida and 
step aboard from your private car at 
Boca Grande, Fort Myers, or any 
available station on the Flagler road. 
Thereafter you are in the hands of your 

captain and you may be sure, if you have 
selected the season aright, that you will 
have the prettiest f.shing in the world, 
presented in its most up-to-date form, 
and available to every man, woman, or 
child of your party. The expenses may 
run into hundreds of dollars per diem, 
although if alone, and parsimonious, 
vou might manage to cut them down to 

The other extreme, of simplicity if 
not of sense, calls for a companion and 
a canoe. Outside of railroad fare and 
the cost of the canoe, the expense of a 
month's outing would be negligible, 
hardly more than the bill of an east 
coast hotel for a day. On a similar trip 
the clothes I stood in cost less than five 
dollars, and I believe that included the 
cost of a dollar watch which later I 
threw at a coon. The tarpon caught 
by the lesser outfit would compare with 
those taken by the other in the propor- 
tion of several to one, while of the timid 
creatures of the wild, seen by the 
canoeists as they silently paddled 
throueh river and bavou, the ratio 



would be almost as infinity to nothing. 

Yet, despite all I have written, our 
recent tarpon-motion-picture excursion 
was of the de luxe variety. Of course, 
it was in the summer, since that is the 
tarpon season, besides being altogether 
delightful on that coast in other re- 
spects, although it would take a surgical 
operation to get these ideas into the con- 
ventional tourist head. That through 
years of experience no summer night has 
been made sleepless or day oppressive by 
heat on that coast fails to impress the 
conventionalist who invariably closes a 
discussion with his poser: 

"How about mosquitoes?" 

I have suffered frightfully from these 
beasts, but it was on a salmon stream. 
While fishing on the Miramichi, Joe 
Jefferson bet me that I couldn't cast for 
salmon for five minutes without brush- 
ing the insects from face or hands. 
There were mosquitoes, black flies, and 
sand flies, and I stood the torture for 
about half the time, yielding then to 
keep from going crazy. Looking back 
over thirty years, if insects have seri- 
ously troubled me while tarpon fishing, 
the incident has left no furrow in my 

Our happy little party of five set 
forth from Fort Myers in pursuit of ad- 
ventures. As we cruised down the 
coast from Pine Island Sound there 
was added to my social pleasure the joy 
of reminiscence, awakened by every 
curve and cape of the shore, every pass 
and inlet, bay, river, and house. I had 
paddled down that same coast with the 
Camera Man, in a forty-pound, four- 
teen-foot canoe, and I wanted to head 
the big boat to the east and again run 
through the surf to the shore. 

As we entered the rivers, passing 
rookeries familiar to me, I fancied the 
birds were the same, yet how sadly de- 
pleted in numbers since I first made ac- 
quaintance with the streams. None of 
my manatee friends were to be seen in 
the waters where often I had called 
upon them, and I was disappointed that 
alligator acquaintances had not re- 
mained on the banks where I had left 

I had long known the Big Cypress, 
Ten Thousand Islands, and the Ever- 

glades as a land without law, a country 
of convicts and a home of mystery 
worthy of its title of ''Darkest Florida." 
There were tragedies told of each river, 
many keys hid a story of crime and the 
prettiest place near the coast had long 
been owned by a desperado who to me 
had been a kindly host. 

What a thriller his story would have 
made for the movies! And the terrible 
drama of his execution! Nothing that 
the villainous Villa could have offered 
the movie men in the shape of a battle 
in exchange for a share in the gate re- 
ceipts could have exceeded it in horror. 

This outlaw, who was well-con- 
nected, was a picturesque feature of the 
country which he dominated for years, 
ordering settlers from near his domain 
and removing with his rifle those who 
neglected to depart. It was common re- 
port that he settled all accounts with a 
thirty-eight and the estimates of his 
homicides were never less than two fig- 
ures and some even reached three. Yet 
with all the reports of his maniacal 
fierceness that abounded, to me he 
seemed "as mild-mannered a man as 
ever scuttled a ship or cut a throat." 

He disarmed all officers sent to 
arrest him and was only eliminated by 
a bunch of fourteen of his nearest 
neighbors just after he had cancelled 
his indebtedness to two men and a wo- 
man by sending them to another world. 
His executioners riddled his body with 
bullets, leaving few of his bones un- 
broken. Their excuse was that their 
victim had snapped both barrels of his 
shot gun at them and when the car- 
tridges failed to explode had drawn his 

Non-explosive cartridges were not the 
kind the murdered man was in the habit 
of carrying, but I never commented 
upon this in conversation with any of 
his executioners, most of whom I knew. 
There is an etiquette of that coast 
which I have often ignorantly violated 
by expressing horror of certain homi- 
cides to men whom I learned later had 
committed them. From among my own 
guides or boatmen I remember seven 
who were either murderers or were 

Tarpon abounded in the bayous and 



streams about this center of tragedy and 
each day we set forth from the house- 
boat, our friends with their tackle, from 
tarpon to trout rods, in launch, skiff, 
or canoe, while the Camera Man and 
I followed in a power boat ready to 
chronicle sport with plate or motion- 
picture film. Much of the work was 
in narrow, crooked streams where we 
couldn't even keep in sight of the other 
craft, but we were usually somewhere 
between them, and when Tim's wild- 
Indian yells or the more civilized shouts 
of our friends shattered the air, our 
picture craft was sent flying around the 
corners of the crooked stream. 

There was small opportunity to 
maneuver for position and we had to 
take our chances as they came. We 
couldn't erind out film at five cents a 

second on tarpon which had already 
made several leaps and might not make 
another in minutes. Yet there is time 
after the beginning of the jump to get 
twenty or thirty pictures of the fish and 
including the commotion in the water 
and the excitemen" in the craft it can 
be run up to a hundred advantageously. 
To the fisherman, with his mind filled 
with a picture of the gorgeous creature 
that has just shot out of the water and 
the hope of another leap while his 
muscles are tingling with the strain on 
rod or line a five-minute delay is pleas- 
urably filled with emotion. A motion- 
picture audience of to-day wouldn't 
stand for the delay and must have a 
continuous performance of leaping tar- 
pon. This was managed after a fashion 
and the performance of scores of tarpon 



were utilized to fill up a reel with 

Yet the Camera Alan counted the re- 
sult as merely educational and of value 
in its promise of what may be accom- 
plished. He encountered no obstacle 
that cannot be surmounted. In this 
experiment, pictures taken at varying 
distances, with widely differing sur- 
roundings, with the performers in canoe, 
skiff or launch indifferently had to be 
merged into one performance which 
gave an abundance of excitement, but 
lacked the complete smoothness of fin- 
ished w 7 ork. 

The larger rivers gave the best op- 
portunity for motion-picture w y ork, as 
the waves and the roll of pass and Gulf 
interfered with the steadiness of i.he 

As the Forester was examining his 
collection of rods and of reels with their 
watch-like mechanism and ingenious 
brakes, he exclaimed : 

"Where does the conservation of tar- 
pon come in. and however can he get 'a 
square deal?' If I had the right kind 
of influence — in Washington — I'd pass 

a tarpon law 

"Fine thing," said I. "What would 
it be?" 

"The rod must be light and the line 
of six to twelve threads, with an emer- 
gency rod for the big fish in the passes 
and an eight-ounce rod for the little fish 
up the rivers." 

"Anything about the boat?" 

"Surely! The fishing must be done 
from a canoe and only those tarpon 
counted which the sportsman lands in 
his craft without help. Then he must 
return them to the water unless he 
should want one or two for specimens." 

"Amen," I cried, "and may I be 
around with the camera when your fish 
gets his innings!" 

Was it fate or frolic that favored us 
one morning? 

The Forester threw his tall form back 
at an angle of thirty degrees. The tough 
hickory of his favorite rod bent into a 
semicircle and threatened to snap the 
line that had been tested to forty-eight 

"Ouch-e-ke-wow!" I shouted, "I wish 
that line w r ould break." 

The Forester was fighting a tarpon 
of nearly his own weight. The fish 




was in its element and good for a half- 
hour battle, while the man was in a 
fickle canoe. Sometimes as the fish 
leaped into the air and the line sud- 
denly slackened my hopes ran high, yet 
the fight was fought to a finish without 
the catastrophe I longed for. It only 
remained for the victor to take the tired 
tarpon into the canoe and, removing one 
of its brilliant scales as a trophy, return 
it to its native element, unharmed but 
enriched by an experience that would 
make it thereafter the Depew of dinners 
and diners in tarpon circles. 

As the Forester staggered beneath the 
weight of the tarpon that he sought to 
lift bodily from the water, the canoe 
rolled gleefully over. This was in the 
Gulf of Mexico, just opposite the mouth 
of Shark River. Our story is not of 
peril, but only of playful adventure, and 
not even the name of the river should 
convey any sinister thought. For the 
shark of our waters is harmless to man 
and rewards offered for proof of one 
having attacked a human being have 
been unclaimed. I have sought for such 
evidence myself and have chased up 
many stories without getting beyond 
their hearsay quality. 

The single exception that occurs to 
me I have accounted apochryphal. The 
story was of a fifteen-foot shark that 
attacked a man and took a huge bite 
out of him. But my confidence in my 
informant was shaken when he added 
that the bite was so bi^ that although 
the man died the bite got well. 

We had many bits of fun with sharks, 
and catching the brutes may be recom- 
mended to athletic sportsmen whose 
muscles ache for a strenuous game. The 
toughest rod that can be bought, with a 
massive reel and a thirty-six thread line 
are adequate weapons. No question of 
mercy to this repulsive creature is ever 
raised. The shark is brought beside the 
skiff, for his teeth would ruin a canoe, 
and the coup de grace administered with 
a revolver. Bringing the brute to bay 
may take five minutes or five hours, but 
no instant of the time is apathetic. 

The Forester reveled in this sport and 
was very successful, capturing the larg- 
est number in the least time, but he 
tampered with the returns, insisting that 

his record be kept in linear feet and not 
by number. This gives him a credit of 
ninety-five feet and some inches of shark, 
which if in a single piece would weigh 
something over two hundred tons, which 
is probably considerably in excess of the 
total weight of all that he killed. 

His leanings have always been toward 
big game — swordflsh and tuna for ex- 
ample — and he took kindly to the chase 
with a harpoon of a sixteen-foot saw- 
fish. He pursued the creature in a skiff 
as after a conflict at close quarters with 
a big sawfish a canoe would resemble 
the feathered contestant in the famous 
dispute between the monkey and the par- 
rot. The pursuit of this branch of the 
shark family is a virile sport and the 
Forester made two misses before he 
secured his specimen. The thought of 
these failures became an obsession and 
after his return he devoted spare hours 
to hurling the harpoon, javelin fashion, 
until he could hit his hat at a distance of 
fifty feet. 

The Camera Man didn't get his in- 
nings in the sawfish game. There were 
several reasons for this. Firstly it was 
too late in the day to take a picture. As 
my space is limited I omit the other 

We began our fishing at Marco, oppo- 
site the Leaping Tarpon Hotel, and in 
three weeks each fisherman of the party 
struck nearly a hundred tarpon, cap- 
turing, and releasing, nearly half that 
number. With a thousand tarpon to 
my credit, or discredit, I cared not to 
add to the score. 

Yet I spent one forenoon in a canoe 
with the Forester to try out a fly rod 
and light tackle. To his eighteen tar- 
pon strikes I got twenty- four; that he 
landed more than I was a fortuitous cir- 
cumstance of which I have not pre- 
served the particulars. The Camera 
Man was the one who got left for his 
pictures had to be suppressed. In total 
disregard of his artistic feelings I de- 
posited my rapidly accumulating avoir- 
dupois and years in the bottom of the 
canoe and paddled and fished from that 
safe but not picturesque position. I 
am keeping the prints the Camera Man 
made of us as souvenirs, since there will 
never be others like them. Henceforth 



when tarpon fishing from a canoe I shall 
sit up like a man and a one-time canoe- 
ist, and if I go to the bottom it shall be 
cum d'ignitate even if sine otio. 

My preference of a hand line to a 
rod, excepting an eight-ounce rod for the 
head of the rivers, has been esteemed by 
many friends an obsession of mine, but 
many of them are now coming my way. 
The arrogance of the Syrian General in 
his comparison of tLe rivers of Babylon 
with the Jordan ^as as nothing to the 
superciliousness with which the usuai 
up-to-date tarpon fisherman, with his 
forty-dollar reel and four-dollar line, re- 
gards this form of sport. Yet there are 
thrills that traverse the tautened line 
between the tarpon mouth and the tour- 

hands were tautly drawn and over them 
passed from the human to the equine 
mind a mandate that dominated, stead- 
ied, held the frightened creatures from 
recoiling in panic and finally sent them, 
a disciplined team, straight for the bar- 
rier. Over it the leaders flew, the 
wheelers rose, but hampered by their 
harness, fell upon it, while the stage 
crashed against the great log and the 
passengers looked from the opened door 
down a vertical wall of a thousand feet. 
More than once has the picture this 
artist drew presented itself to my mind 
as a tarpon has touched the bait I trailed 
from a light canoe. For the person- 
ality of a tarpon was in that touch and 
as I struck sharply by way of challenge^ 


ist hand which the fisher with a rod 
will never feel. 

Bret Harte, as in my library he "tried 
on the clog" an unpublished story, pic- 
tured to me in his wonderful way the 
message he saw a stage driver send 
through the tightened reins to his fright- 
ened team as it dashed down the pre- 
cipitous path across which a tree had 
fallen. The eight lines in the driver's 

his defiance came swiftly in the form of 
a lean many fee" in the air, followed by 
a wild dash that made the five-inch 
freeboard of my light canoe seem like a 
narrow margin between the water and 
me. I sent soothing messages through 
a line, firmly and steadily held, and re- 
turned soft answers to explosions of 

Then when the Camera Man said 



he was ready for another jump, with 
twitchings of the line I sent the fish 
messages that maddened him and as he 
replied with savage shakes of his head I 
taunted him in Morse dots and dashes 
until he manifested his rage by leaping 
wildly at me. Through alternate coax- 
ing and teasing the gamut of tarpon 

line. His broad side, glistening in the 
sun, is of frosted silver, his back of 
kingly purple. His wild gyrations are 
puzzling to follow and only the camera 
can catch the convulsive motion of his 
gills. Often, too, the camera catches 
and fixes in the air the hook which the 
tarpon has hurled far from him. 

lii^ f" tH — j 


r^ **r» *4K**1 ^* ' 


• E^^Kk 


'*' ' * :?, ■-..; - 

P/ioto 6y Ewttyn M. Gill 


emotion can be run and when at last the 
fish floats exhausted beside the canoe a 
turn of the ha»~d loosens the hook and 
restores to an honorable enemy his well- 
earned liberty. 

I sing praises of tarpon fishing with a 
hand line from a canoe, combating the 
prejudices of a generation of sportsmen. 
But let us reason together. Compare 
the ponderous launch with the dancing 
canoe which vibrates to every mood of 
the great fish even as it responds to a 
touch of the paddle. Imagine the thrill 
that wakens every nerve as you feel 
through the line the quarry seizing the 
bait and your own quick strike is fol- 
lowed by the frantic leap high in the air 
of the well-named Silver King. 

Thereafter every twist and turn, 
every quiver, heart beat, or thought of 
the fish is telephoned through the tense 

Do you know any other fish that can 
approach the brilliant performances of 
the tarpon? Do you know one of any 
importance that leaps when struck or if 
it chance to jump out of its element 
once, ever repeats the performance while 
you are playing it? 

You can play the tarpon to your lik- 
ing, making the fight fast and furious 
and ending it in fifteen minutes by draw- 
ing your canoe so near the fish that its 
frantic leaps are beside or over or into 
5 r our canoe. Or if you don't want to 
chance a capsize you can play the game 
quietly and spend half an hour to an 
hour in landing your quarry, to the ac- 
companiment of continuous sallies punc- 
tuated by picturesque leaps, often aston- 
ishingly high in the air. Every mo- 
ment of the struggle is alive with fun 
and the excitement of anticipation. 



One may get healthfully tired but there 
are no aching muscles. The strain is 
direct and not multiplied by the leverage 
of the rod. When a hand line is used 
with much vigor, the tarpon often con- 
serves the sportsman's time by leaping 
into his arms and landing itself in the , 

I don't care for hard work for its 
own sake and I wouldn't wind a wind- 
lass and hoist like a derrick for eight 
or ten hours without sight of the game 
for any record or even the right to 
wear a button. Salmon fishing is per- 
haps nearest in line to the sport of which 
I write, but it lacks the picturesque 
leaping which is the feature of tarpon 
fishing. Then, too, the expense of the 
salmon sport is becoming prohibitive. 
It costs a fortune to own a section of a 
salmon stream and the right to fish in a 
favorite pool is beyond price, while 
each captured salmon represents on the 
average days of toil. I can point out 
tarpon streams by the hundred miles 
and pools without number where, in 
the season, each hour of fishing will 
average more than one tarpon and all 
this wonderful opportunity is free as 

Are there two of you, nature lovers, 
who want to get into the tarpon game 
on the ground floor of cost and comfort? 
Hire a launch with a skiff and engage 
its owner as captain, oarsman, cook and 
general factotum, a man unspoiled by 
conventional sportsmen and as ready to 
turn his hand to any required work as 
you should be yourself. Provide by 
purchase a light canoe, which you can 
sell after you are through with it and 
lay in supplies as modestly as your na- 
ture will permit. With the fish you will 
catch from the start, the oysters you 
may gather from the trees, the clams, 
hard and soft, you may tread or dig, 
the palmetto cabbage vour factotum will 
cut, the fruits you will find, and the 
vegetables you will have chances to buy, 
it is repletion instead of starvation you 
will have to fear. 

Much of the pleasure of your trip 
will depend upon your choice of a boat- 
man. A fair knowledge of the coast is 

needed, cheerfulness is vital, while a 
sense of humor goes far to make a joy- 
ful outing. I have in mind a boatman 
of this type who contributed to the 
comfort of our recent trip by his interest 
in all our plans, his anxiety to forward 
them, and his humor. His knowledge 
of the habits of wild creatures was 
wide and often the question rang out — 
"Where's Tim?" always echoed by the 
cheery response — "Coming, sir!" fol- 
lowed by the advent of the man, alert 
and eager to be of service. 

Of his scores of humorous replies I 
will mention two. As we were looking 
at a lot of water turkeys the Forester 
asked : 

"Are water turkeys good to eat, 

"They are fishy unless you know how 
to cook them, but then they are all 

"How do you cook them?" 

"Skin them first, cut off the breasts 
and throw away the rest. Then I put 
the breasts between two bricks, set them 
on a bed of hot coals, and keep them 
there till I can stick a fork through the 
brick into the bird." 

The cavalry, or jackfish, is a hard 
fighter, offering sport to the angler, but 
not usually cared for as food. Yet 
there is a broad layer of dark flesh in 
this fish that has a meaty flavor which 
I like. I was defending my taste to my 
companions when Tim chipped in on my 
side, saying: 

"I like jacks first rate when they are 
fixed my way." 

"How is that?" 

"Just as you fellers tell about plank- 
ing shad up north. I split a good fat 
jackfish, tack it on a board and sprinkle 
it good with salt and pepper and put on 
some butter if I can get it. I set it up 
before a hot fire and keep up the fire 
till the fish is crisp on the outside and 
cooked through and through. Then I 
strip it off, throw it in the fire and eat 
the board." 

I haven't given Tim's real name, 
firstly because I am not advertising in- 
dividuals, and secondly — I may want 
him myself next summer. 


This is the time of the year when all good fishermen turn away from 
desk and counter and bench and whatever other humdrum appliance aids 
in the stupid task of making a living, and betake themselves to the real 
occupation of life. The photographs which follow are presented in the 
hope that they may inspire those who can follow the lure — and irritate 
those who want to but can't. 






Illustrated with Photographs by the Author 


AST month Mr. White carried his caravan into the mountain 
*~* range that separated him from the Promised Land of his 
travels. Beyond lay the virgin game fields of German East Africa 
which he was to explore. They climbed the steep ridges, hauled 
donkeys across a river by main strength and a rope, hunted for 
water that was fit to drink, and otherwise suffered the minor diffi- 
culties of travelers in a new and unknown land. This month he 
carries his storv down into a Pleasant Valley where there was grass 
and water in plenty. 

accompany us only to the other side of 
the mountain range, where they were 
to leave the potio, and then were to 
return by the way they had come. All 
were equipped with the native soga, a 
flat pad made of cloth across which the 
loads were slung in pairs. Nothing but 
adhesion and friction prevented them 
from falling off. 

Naturally they shifted constantly, and 
up and down hill tended to slide off 


ROM Vanderweyer's we 
started with our caravan in- 
creased by forty-odd of his 
donkeys in charge of his men. 
Twenty-five of these were 
laden with fifty loads of 
potio, which we had previously sent down 
to his place by ox-wagon ; the rest carried 
trade goods with which Vanderweyer 
intended to take- a little flyer on his 
own account. These animals were to 


Begun in April OUTING 



over the beasts' heads or tails. Then 
one man had to catch and hold the 
donkey, while two others lifted the load 
aboard. In the meantime the rest of 
the lot would be getting into trouble. 
Vanderweyer's animals never got fn less 
than two or three hours later than the 
porters; whereas our own, equipped 
with the American sawbuck saddle [the 
first use made of this in East Africa], 
kept pace with the men. 

Our donkey men required careful 
training and constant supervision in the 
matter of saddling and adjusting of 
packs ; otherwise sore backs were a cer- 
tainty. Unless the white man is willing 
to do this, the American rig might be 
more trouble than it is worth ; but if 
he will give the matter individual at- 
tention, donkeys will make as good av- 
erage marches as men, and solve the 
problem for countries where there is 

no local potio to be had, and where there 
is no tsetse. 

This day the sky was overcast and 
cool. I marched ahead of the safari 
through the forest pass of the Narossara 
Mountains to the Fourth Bench, as in 
1911. Saw many Masai, and a few 
kongoni, zebra, and Robertsi. Passed 
the Sacred Tree, stuffed full of stones, 
bunches of grass, and charms. Memba 
Sasa looked a little ashamed — but he 

That night we made camp just where, 
in 1911, we turned off to our Topi Camp. 
Thousands of brilliant butterflies, flut- 
tering just over a water hole, made a 
pretty sight. Many Masai, men and 
women, visited us. I had a wonderful 
success with simple coin tricks, my sword 
cane, an old opera-hat Newland gave 
us, and the image in the Graflex. Tried 
in vain to buy spears. One of the minor 



chiefs turned out to be a man I had 
known in 1911, when Mrs. White was 
with me. Said he, "I am very glad to 
see you. You did not bring any of 
your women with you this time." He 
offered me a young girl of fifteen — who 
seemed pleased — for three rupees. 

July seventeenth dawned clear and 
bright, but at sunrise a heavy fog de- 
scended. Very heavy dew, and the long 
grass immediately wet us to the waist. 
We went on our old trail of 1911 as 
far as the first camp on the sidehill ; 
then crossed directly over the swamp. 
I looked for signs of our old camp, 
but the two years had absolutely ob- 


literated every trace. While waiting for 
Cuninghame and the donkeys to go 
around the swamp, I had a long chat 
with two old Masai. They were quite 
in awe of the keenness and temper of 
the sword stick; told me of a lion, etc. 

We then went down the side of the 
swamp, and reached our old friend, 
Naiokotoku's, permanent manyatta, or 
village. It was different from the usual 
temporary village, strongly stockaded, 
with large houses. Another similar en- 
closure fairly adjoined it, and several 
nearby ordinary ?nanyattas completed the 
entourage of so great a chief. 

We marched directly through, and 



made camp Jn the woods. The sur- 
roundings and outlook were beautiful — 
great trees and vines, and vistas out 
through them of valleys and green 
marshes and great wooded mountains all 
around. Our camp farthest south in 
1911 was opposite and about two miles 
away. Many very gorgeous warriors in 
full panoply visited us. They said the 
chief was sleeping. More likely drunk, 
said we, remembering him of old. 

As he had not shown up by two 
o'clock, I agreed to climb the high hills 
to the west and get a look abroad over 
the unknown country through which we 
must go. An hour's hard climb and I 
gazed out over a bewildering tumble of 
lower hills, ending in a sheer rampart 
of great mountains about fifteen miles 
away. At first glance it took my breath 
away, so absolutely hopeless did it look. 
Then I sat down with my glasses, pris- 
matic compass, and notebook and care- 
fully took stock. 

There seemed to be two possible 
passes, and I noted them. Of course, 
the Masai must have a track down 
through, and we counted on old Naio- 
kotoku's friendship and promises of 1911. 
Saw many impalla, zebra, and kongoni 
in the brush on the mountainside, from 
which I shot some camp meat. 

Returned to camp to find Naiokotoku 
and his court just arrived. Drink has 
made him very flabby and puffy since 
we saw him last. To our surprise we 
found him surly, taciturn, and unfriend- 
ly. To our questions as to trails, guides, 
etc., he replied that there was no trail, 
he had no guides. He said barefacedly 
that he did not remember us ; he had no 
milk, no sheep. Between whiles he 
stared at the ground. His beautiful war- 
riors were plainly uneasy. 

"Very well," said I at last, "the biuana 
m kubwa has many presents for those 
that help him. He is sorry you cannot 
help him. But he is generous, never- 
theless: take this knife. Good-bye." 

They filed out sullenly. Later we 
tried through some of our men to get 
information from underlings, but with- 
out success, except that we learned that 
two Masai from the German side were 
at that moment in another manyatta, 
and about to return ! 

Months later, on our return from 
Nairobi, we found that two sportsmen 
had spent three weeks in that country, 
since 1911, and had obtained guides 
from Naiokotoku. The sportsmen had 
procured two elephants, a lion, and two 
buffalo in a very short space of time, 
but had had some sort of misunder- 
standing with the guides, and ended by 
refusing any payment. Of course, I 
do not know the nature of the misunder- 
standing, but they got what they were 
after, and should have paid Naiokotoku 
for the men he supplied. Then they 
could have registered their objections. 
As it was, they merely succeeded in 
turning a friendly tribe hostile, and in 
making it difficult for the next fellow. 

We discussed the matter at some 
length, but finally decided to try and 
nose a way through. I have had a 
good deal of mountain experience on an- 
other continent. 

Hunting for a Pass 

Next morning we started very early 
over the high hill on which I hunted 
the day before, and down the other side 
into the welter of smaller hills. When 
we were half way down two Masai 
with arms passed us on a run without 
deigning us a greeting. Subsequent ex- 
periences made us certain that these were 
at once spies on us and messengers to 
warn other manyattas to give us no 
information. At the bottom of the hill 
we sent Sanguiki to a village to try to 
find out something. He returned to 
tell us that the Masai were "kali sana' 
(very fierce) and would tell nothing. 
We struck into a likely grass ridge, 
found a Masai trail that went our way, 
and jogged on. 

The ridge, after six or seven miles, 
ran down into a broad grass ravine that 
led to a small river. We were much 
amused by a small herd of zebra that 
kept just ahead of us, and seemed vastly 
indignant at being repeatedly driven for- 
ward. In the grass swale I jumped 
seven big eland at about fifty yards — 
a fine sight. We soon discovered that 
the banks of the stream were too swampy 
to cross, so we went down a mile or 
so and camped. 



After lunch Cuninghame and I with 
four men set out to scout a way. I 
had marked the possible pass by a small 
green patch on the mountainside. We 
found a ford — after being scared by a 
crashing old rhino at close quarters — 
and ascended the mountain. The way 
proved feasible until we reached a round 
elevated valley below the final rise of 
the escarpment. Here we found a spring 
of water and marked it on our sketch 
map. A herd of zebra and kongoni were 
here, a happy find, for we needed meat. 

Leaving the men to attend to the vic- 
tim, Cuninghame and I toiled to the 
summit of the ridge. Here we got 
an extensive view of a wild tumble of 
hills, but could see plainly a feasible 
pass to a stream on the other side of 
the ridge. Also across the way another 
water hole, with a great concourse of 
baboons sitting around it. Quite satis- 
fied for the moment, we named it Gil- 
bert Pass, in honor of my brother's birth- 
day. A long tramp brought us back to 
camp at dusk. 

Wonderful moon, and very chilly 
night. M'ganga, in the meantime, had 
tried another Masai village for informa- 
tion, but returned with no news except 
that the runners had been there warning 
them to give us no help. 

Another day took us over Gilbert Pass 
to the stream, and then down-stream 
for some distance over an old Masai 
trail between mighty mountains. A 
honey bird followed us for over an hour, 
beseeching us to turn aside, and then 
flew away in disgust. Saw duiker, reed- 
buck, kongoni, zebra, eland, warthog, 
and mongoose. The trail ended in a 
small round valley and a salt lick. 

After lunch Cuninghame and I took 
up our regular job of scouting. The 
river here entered a deep, narrow rock 
gorge, so we spent much toil in as- 
cending the hill to the left, whence w T e 
looked out over so tumbled and broken 
a country that we immediately gave up 
going south and returned for a cast to 
westward. The river here was quite 
big, and we forded up to our waists. 
For some time we had no luck on ac- 
count of dense forest, but finally dis- 
covered a game trail that led us up 
through a Low pass to look abroad over 

so beautiful a wide, shallow grass val- 
ley dotted with groves that we named 
it Pleasant Valley. Here we saw a few 
herds of game, including some eland. 

Cuninghame climbed the south ridge 
and reported precipices. Therefore, we 
must go down the valley and take our 
luck at the lower end. Got in at sun- 
down. At midnight, two rhinos from 
the salt lick blundered into the edge of 
camp. Great excitement and row; 
everybody out with firebrands and yells 
to drive them off. 

Still More Valleys 

Next morning, which brought us to 
July twentieth, we marched to the lower 
end of Pleasant Valley. There we 
squatted the safari, and separated to find 
a way over. Each found a feasible 
route, but the safari was nearer Cuning- 
hame's, so we took that. From the top 
of the ridge we looked out upon a very 
big oval valley filled with thorn scrub. 
Across the valley was another high ram- 
part. At the lower end, about six miles 
distant, there was an apparent narrow 
break where a river went through. This 
seemed the most likely way, so we head- 
ed for that. 

It was hard travel over rough coun- 
try, in high grass and thorns that tore 
at us eagerly. Marched high above a 
canon, and camped below two enormous 
peaks, one of which we named Mt. Bell- 
field, in honor of the present governor 
of British East Africa. A narrow for- 
est bordered a stream of beautiful clear 
water. Never have I seen a more mar- 
velous display of curtain vines and gor- 
geous flowering trees. 

The outlook was now so very uncer- 
tain as to whether we could continue 
down the canon that Cuninghame and 
I scouted ahead before breaking camp. 
Enormous rugged mountains compassed 
us about, and we feared the river would 
end in an impassable gorge. We took 
a rhino track that speedily led us into 
a wonderful forest of great trees, looped, 
snaky vines, lacy underbrush, tree ferns, 
and flowering bushes. There were many 
baboons and monkeys swinging about. 
The sun rarely penetrated. Great rock 
cliffs towered at either hand, and the 



clear stream dashed down cataracts and 
waterfalls among the boulders. 

The rhino track led true for some 
distance, then petered out to a monkey 
trail and ended in an impassable gorge. 
There was nothing to be gained in that 
direction, so we turned our attention to 
the canon walls. By dint of crawling, 
climbing straight up, and worming my 
way, I gained the top of a ridge to 
the right, and most unexpectedly found 
it to be a spur, or "hogsback," between 
our stream and another. I followed it 
until I found that it did not "jump off" 
at the end, then returned and shouted 
for Cuninghame. He scrambled up, and 
together we set to find a way down to 
stream level. We discovered a blessed 
— but disused — rhino trail. Cuninghame 
went back for men. On his return we 
each took a squad with axes and pangas 
(native sword-like implements) and 
slowly hewed out a good path. We 
landed finally at a grove of trees near 
the junction of the two streams and 
from there sent the men back to move 

Our river here plunged into another 
gorge. A wide valley led to a moun- 
tain range to the left. Cuninghame 
agreed to climb the range above the 
gorge, while I explored the valley. I 
went up about three miles, only to find 
that it ended in a cul-de-sac. Returning, 
I turned aside to stalk a bull eland — 
only game seen for two days — and found 
a narrow tributary valley that led to 
a possible pass. Very hot. At camp 
I found that Cuninghame had hit on 
my same route from above. 

The cliffs opposite are hung with trail- 
ing, rope-like cactus, and inhabited by 
many baboons. Made this day only 
four miles, though we walked nine and 
a half hours. 

We started the day following with a 
terrific climb, almost straight up to the 
summit of the transverse ridge. Very 
sweaty, hard work for men and beasts. 
Made it finally, and got a very fine view 
back over the way we have come. We 
wondered how we ever got through. 
From here the ranges get smaller, so 
that we can look out over lesser and 
lesser systems until far away we could 
guess at the brown of plains. When 

the men saw this spread out ahead of 
them they cheered. 

But it looked like a puzzler to get 
down. Our river had plunged hopeless- 
ly, and the ridges and canons seemed 
to be heavily grown with a kind of chap- 
paral and to have no order or system. 
Far away to the south we dimly made 
out two enormous craters that must be 
upwards of 12,000 feet high. 

However, there was a notch opposite, 
so we made for that. On the other 
side of the notch we descended to an- 
other small valley, and beyond that we 
saw another notch. We entered the 
valley. Very hot. Cuninghame took a 
detour to the right, and shortly whistled 
us down to him. 

Looking foj- a Way Out 

At the foot of the valley was a single 
shady tree, with big smooth trunk, great 
buttressed roots, broad leaves, and a 
small fruit. It was big-limbed and 
broad, and just beyond it was a water- 
hole, of mud and little pools, forty or 
fifty feet broad. This was enclosed with 
a low thorn bo ma (brush fence), and at 
the dozen openings that had been left 
for the purpose, tall saplings had been 
planted and bent over by means of well- 
made native sisal rope. Buried loops 
were to be sprung by the animals that 
entered. What they could be we could 
not imagine, as there were no signs of 
game — probably stray bushbuck. We 
sprung all the snares, and made camp 
beneath the tree. 

In the afternoon Cuninghame and I 
made a very high, hot climb through the 
second notch ; found it led nowhere ; cast 
about, and finally came on a long hogs- 
back that led gently down two miles to 
end abruptly. We looked straight down 
eight hundred feet or so on another 
scrub-grown valley w T ith some queer, 
rounded rock outcrops about a hundred 
feet in height. The descent was sheer, 
but we figured out zigzags. Over op- 
posite lay a big black range, but around 
its lower end our river broke through 
a notch. 

We figured we would either go 
through the notch or climb the range; 
and so returned to camp, pretty tired. 



We were cheered by the sight of a 
dozen kongoni and three Chanler's reed- 
buck atop the ridge, for this was the 
first game we had seen — save the single 
eland — since entering the mountain 
ranges. The descent by the zigzags 
proved to be a terror for men, but es- 
pecially for donkeys. The last of Van- 
derweyer's did not get in until 6 p. m. ! 

Once safely down, we crossed the val- 
ley by the rocks, and found ourselves in 
face of another lesser drop. Thornbush 
very bad, so that we moved a hundred 
feet at a time and our clothes and skins 
suffered. At last I found a rhino trail 
down. The men dropped their packs and 
set to work with pang as and axes and 
finally cleared a trail. Cuninghame and 
I pushed ahead, and soon found our- 
selves on the banks of a fine river. A 
shady thicket and great trees ran along- 
side, elephant grass reached ten feet 
above our heads. 

We followed the rhino trails, and 
after some search discovered a ford. 
After consultation, Cuninghame re- 
mained to place camp and cross the ani- 
mals, while I pushed ahead as rapidly 
as possible to scout out a way for the 
morrow through the scrub to the end of 
the range, and to find out whether we 
could follow the river. 

I soon discovered difficulties, in the 
first place to get a feasible path through 
the tangle of thorn scrub, and, in the 
second place, to dodge rhinos. The val- 
ley was about five miles by three, grown 
ten feet high with thorny jungle, and 
literally infested by the beasts. Their 
broad, well-beaten trails went every- 

where. These were a help, but there 
was always a doubt as to whether their 
rightful owners did not want to use 
them. I went along singing at the top 
of my voice all the songs I knew, in 
spite of the fact that the close heat of 
the thicket and the powerful sun were 
not conducive to vocal exercise. 

About a mile on a huge bulk reared 
itself not over fifteen yards ahead, snort- 
ed, and rushed down the trail toward 
me. I literally could not force myself 
a foot into the wall of thorns, so I 
brought the Springfield into action and 
fired at its head. The beast stopped 
five )^ards from me and turned square 
across the trail, swinging his head slowly, 
and evidently trying to make up his 
mind as to what hit him. After per- 
haps ten seconds he showed signs of 
swinging back in my direction. I, who 
had been much on the alert for any 
such move, gave him one in the shoulder. 
This decided him. He turned around 
and disappeared. 

After a decent interval I followed 
him. At last I reached the point where 
the range met the river. A cliff only 
twenty feet across seemed to bar that, 
though the approach on both sides was 
good. I rested there ten minutes, and 
then returned to camp, blazing a way 
with my hunting knife as I went. Saw 
one bushbuck, the only game. Got in 
at sundown, and drank a quart of tea all 
at once. Quite weary and ankle-sore. 
During the evening two rhinos tried to 
enter camp, but we scared them off with 
our Colts and firebrands. This valley 
must have been full of them. 

(To be continued) 

Next month the mountains let go and the 
expedition heads eastward for Lake Natron 
through the first of the real game country. 




The Woodcraft of Twilight Jack 
Unravels a Mystery of the North 

1ND a fellow with a 
green canoe who stop- 
ped here two weeks 
ago?" asked the stran- 
ger in the office of 
Sabawi's small and 
only hotel. 

The hotel man smoked reflectively. 
Then his face brightened. 

"Billy McKecknie?" 

"That's him." 

"Yes, he was here. Said to leave 
word for Say, you ain't Twi- 
light Jack?" 

"Yes. Hasn't he been here since that 

"No. Said he'd be back in a week 
sure and that you was to wait for him. 
I've heard of you two lads, the time you 
went out and got the Indian that killed 
the fur-buyer down on Wild Potato 

"How far is Lake Separation from 

"Between fifty and sixty miles by 

"Anyone been down lately?" 

"Not since the Indians came down 
from Lake Kahshahpiwi for their treaty 
money a month ago. Where was your 
partner going?" 

"Lake Separation." 

The hotel man's tilted chair came 
down to the floor with a thump and he 
stared at his guest. 

"It's not a hard trip, is it?" 

The hotel man resumed his position 
against the wall and puffed rapidly at 
his pipe. 

"It never was until this year," he 
answered slowlv. 

"What do 

vou mean 

"Now, don't get excited, lad, but 
there's a funny thing about that Lake 

Separation route this summer. Two 
men w T ent up there before your part- 
ner did." 

Twilight Jack looked up sharply when 
the hotel man paused. 

"And neither of 'em's been seen 

"Not seen since? Why?" 

"Killed in Shee-ing-guss Rapids. Least, 
that's about the only thing that could 
have happened. A fellow was killed 
there last fall. Men in another canoe 
following saw his paddle break, and he 
was drawn in." 

"Why Weasel Rapids?" 

" 'Cause they're white, like a weasel 
in winter, all the way down, and about 
as bloodthirsty. And they leap and 
glide and slide along just like one of 
the little white devils. No man ever 
run em." ■ 

"Who were the fellows got killed 

"First this year was Pat McConnell, 
who's been prospecting in this district 
ever since they found gold on Rainy 
Lake twenty years ago. He went up 
that way in May to do some assessment 
work on a claim, and said he'd sure be 
back by July first. Pat never misses 
his Dominion Day spree here. 

"Then, about the first week in July, 
a young fellow from the States went up, 
just a pleasure trip. Said he had to 
be back in two weeks. He never came 
back. His dad came up and hired a 
couple of men. After they'd spent nearly 
a month dynamiting and searching the 
shores, he offered five hundred dollars 
reward for the body, but the Indians 
say it'll never come up. There's 
more'n four hundred feet of water in the 
•lake where the rapids empty into it, 
and it's mightv cold water." 




"A fellow like Pat McConnell ought 
not to get caught there." 

"No, it don't seem so, but they found 
his canoe, smashed up, in the lake. Old 
George Marvin found the lad's canoe. 
It wasn't hurt. The boy's father gave 
it to Marvin for helping search. 

"It's making the portage above the 
rapids that's bad. You see, the river 
runs through a rock gorge with straight 
walls. A couple of hundred yards above 
the first pitch there is a shoot and pretty 
fast water between it and the rapids. 
There used to be an old portage starting 
above the shoot, but no one uses it. 
They run the shoot right down to the 
top of the rapids and then pull into the 
east shore in an eddy. Right in the rock 
wall is a cut, and by carrying fifty feet 
through this cut and down the rocks 
you can set into the lake around a point 
from where the rapids come out. It 
saves a long portage." 

And you think both Pat McConnell 
and Billy got caught there, two old- 
timers like them?" 

"It don't sound right, but you know 
how those things run in threes. And 
they found the smashed canoe." 

Twilight Jack sat silently for half an 

"Who lives up in that country?" he 
asked at last. 

"Only three men. The first is old 
George Marvin, who found the lad's 
canoe. He lives on Caribou Lake, an 
old man who does a little trapping, put- 
ters around in a garden and just about 
makes a living. Ten miles farther is 
Squaw Bill Dennison. He buys fur of 
the Indians and, they say, sells whisky 
to them, though no one ever caught him 
at it. Bill's got a sort of hard name, 
though I always found him all right. 

"Then there's a breed lives on Kah- 
shahkogwog Lake, ten miles this side of 
Lake Separation. He's a bad Indian. 
Ben Peters his name is." 

The hotel man rambled on, and Twi- 
light gathered much information about 
the country and the route. He learned 
that Pat McConnell had used a blue 
Peterborough and that the tourist had 
brought a canvas canoe from the States, 
that Squaw Bill Dennison was known 
for his red hair and beard, and that 

Marvin suffered from rheumatism and 
shouldn't live so far from town when 
he was subject to "bad spells of crip- 

"Guess Mike and I'll run up and see 
these rapids in the morning," he said as 
he arose to go to bed. 

"Didn't know you had anyone with 

"Mike's short for Myingen. He's 
my other partner. Half wolf and half 
dog, and knows more'n most men. We 
always travel together." 

Before noon the next day Twilight 
Jack guided his canoe through the shoot 
above Shee-ing-guss Rapids and dashed 
down in the swift 'current toward the 
crest of the first pitch. He watched the 
east shore closely, turned the canoe into 
an eddy and came to a stop at the mouth 
of a narrow slash in the high, straight 
wall of the gorge. 

"It's a nasty place, Mike," he said as 
he lifted out his pack and drew up the 

A long, rangy gray-and-brown dog 
had jumped to the shore and stood 
stretching his cramped legs. He had 
the sharp muzzle and pointed ears of 
the wolf, much of the gray fur and the 
rangy build, but some progenitor that 
had never known the wild life had given 
him heavier limbs and chest and an oc- 
casional patch of brown. 

Together the man and the dog climbed 
the side of the cut to the top of the 
cliff and walked down toward the lake, 
the rapids beneath them. 

"No man or boat could ever go 
through there and live, Mike," Twilight 
explained as he looked down. 

Before he and Billy McKecknie had 
begun trapping together two years be- 
fore, Mike had been his constant com- 
panion, and even Billy's presence had not 
ended his habit of discussing all things 
with the dog. 

"If old Billy was pulled in, there's no 
use in our looking for him. But I don't 
see how he could have been caught." 

They went back to the canoe and 
turned down the boulder-cluttered cleft 
in the rock walls. Fifty feet down 
grade, and Twilight found himself on 
the shore of White Otter Lake, in a bay 
around a long point from where the river 



entered. He stood on a shelf of rock six 
feet above another shelf which formed 
a natural landing just above the level of 
the water. 

"Quite a handy portage, but no one 
would ever find it unless they knew it 
was here. Maybe Billy didn't know " 

Twilight stopped speaking and 
jumped down to the lower shelf. 

"Come here, Mike, and smell of this," 
he exclaimed as he bent over a heap of 
ashes beside the rock. But it was not 
the ashes nor the charred stubs of un- 
burned wood that interested him. It 
was a piece of birch sapling propped 
over a rock. 

"No one but Billy ever cut a tea stick 
like that," he cried. "He always cut 
off the end square with his knife and 
made a notch for the bail. See, it's 
fresh cut, too. And if Billy boiled tea 
here, he made this portage and never 
went through the rapids. He's not 
killed, Mike. He's just delayed some- 
where. We'll hurry on and find where 
he is." 

Twilight quickly carried his canoe 
and pack across and in ten minutes had 
paddled out of the deep bay and was on 
White Otter Lake. He studied his map 
for a minute and then turned north to- 
ward the portage into Caribou Lake. 
After paddling a half mile, he saw a 
canoe on the shore. 

"There's McConnell's blue Peterbor- 
ough, Mike," he said when he w T as near 
enough to distinguish the color. "We'll 
have a look." 

The canoe was badly smashed, and 
Twilight examined it with the interest 
of a man who wonders just what a bad 
piece of water will do to a craft. 

"That's certainly a nasty bunch of 
rips, when it'll do that," he announced. 
"It must have been half full and then 
hit a rock to cave in the side." 

Suddenly Twilight dropped to his 
knees and looked closely at the wreck. 
Then he went over the entire outer sur- 
face, carefully examining the shattered 

"That wasn't any rocks, Mike, least 
any rocks like I ever saw before. There 
was only one rock smashed that canoe, 
and that was an iron rock, an axe. 
There's seven places where you can see 

the clean dents it made, and not a 
jagged cut on the whole canoe. 

"I didn't think an old-timer like Pat 
would get caught in such a place, and 
we know Billy never went through. 
There's another answer to this besides 
Shee-ing-guss Rapids, old ninnymusher, 
and we've got to find out. Maybe it 
ain't too late yet to help Billy." 

For an hour Twilight paddled swift- 
ly. Then, as he rounded an island, he 
suddenly stopped and called : 

"Billy! Oh, Billy!" 

Mike sat up in the canoe and looked 
at the shore, whining at the mention of 
McKecknie's name. 

"There's his canoe, Mike," exclaimed 
Twilight, paddling toward the shore. 

It was the green Peterborough of his 
partner, but, when tw T o hundred yards 
away, Twilight knew that only the wind 
and waves had beached it where it was. 
Lying broadside to the shore, the bow 
lifted slightly onto a rock, it lay in the 
water, somew T hat deeply submerged at 
the stern. 

Twilight scrambled ashore and to the 
green canoe. It was a quarter full of 
water but otherwise contained nothing, 
not even a paddle. There was no sign 
on the shore of any one having left the 
craft there. 

While he had feared for his partner, 
Twilight Jack did not until this mo- 
ment admit the possibility of his being 
dead. Now the drifting, empty canoe 
told a story which he could not escape. 
For the first time in his life in the wild- 
erness he felt fear of something besides 
the elements. Somewhere near him 
there was someone, something, that had 
caused the death of two men and prob- 
ably three. He glanced apprehensively 
out over the lake, but so far as he could 
see he was alone in the wilderness. Then 
he stiffened determinedly and turned to 
his own canoe. 

"We'll find Billy if it's the last thing 
we do," he told the dog as he motioned 
it into the bow. „ 

An hour later they arrived at the 
place where the river flowed into Cari- 
bou Lake. It was a swift, rock-filled 
stream, and Twilight proceeded cau- 
tiously. A small falls forced him to 
portage. Although he examined the 



take-off carefully, he could not find signs 
on the flat rocks that covered the shore. 
It was only a liftover, and in five min- 
utes he was again threading his way 
between the boulders. 

Suddenly he thrust his paddle against 
the bottom and stopped his canoe. 

"Mike, look at that," he whispered. 
"There's green paint on that rock, and 
some more on the one on the other side. 
Billy always was careless in such places 
as this. "What's a little paint, more or 
less?' he always said. Billy and his 
canoe got this far, Mike, but how did 
the canoe drift ashore back there up- 
stream beyond the portage?" 

For half an hour he poled back and 
forth and at last returned to the falls. 

"Billy went up, but he never came 
back," he decided as he stepped ashore. 
"Did you notice, Mike, that all the 
green paint was on the upstream sides, of 
the rocks, and that there wasn't any 
left by a canoe coming this way? Billy 
went through here with his canoe, but 
he didn't bring it back. It was towed 
back light. The same thing's likely to 
be true of Pat, and the other lad. What 
happened to them happened north of 

here, and " he stopped and looked 

down the little river, "it might happen 
to us, too." 

For a minute he sat thoughtfully, 
looking downstream. Then he pulled 
his map from its case. 

"We've got to back track a bit, lad," 
he announced after a few minutes. "If 
we're going to find out anything, we 
want to be coming the other way. If 
there's anything to happen to us, it ain't 
so liable to happen if we come onto it 
unexpected. There's a river flowing 
into White Otter Lake back on the east 
shore, and by going up that we can get 
into a chain of lakes and reach Lake 
Separation. Then we can come back 
on this route, and we'll keep our eyes 
open while we do it." 

Two nights later Twilight Jack and 
Mike camped on Lake Separation. They 
had traveled from dawn until dark, and 
seventy miles of lake, river and portage 
lay between them and the place where 
they had turned back. Nor was there 
rest the next morning. Before dawn 
Twilight was at the portage into Kah- 

shahkogwog Lake, and before sun-up 
he had located Ben Peters' cabin on 
the west shore and was hidden in the 
brush less than one hundred yards from 
it. Mike remained to guard the canoe 
and pack. 

After two hours smoke floated from 
the chimney, and a boy ten or twelve 
years old came out for an armful of 
wood. But it was the middle of the 
forenoon before Peters appeared, and 
Twilight at once saw the reason. The 
breed was very drunk and reeled about 
in front of the cabin. The boy went 
fishing in a birch bark canoe, while the 
man remained outside the door, stop- 
ping his wild yells and songs only for 
frequent drinks. At last, just before his 
son's return, he pitched forward from 
his seat in the doorway. 

When the boy entered the cabin, Twi- 
light walked quickly to the door. Be- 
yond a short stare and an answering 
"B'jou," the youngster took no notice 
of his presence, and Twilight sat down 
to wait. He knew the Indian too well 
to attempt to force a conversation, but 
that same knowledge of the Indian char- 
acter and of Ojibway enabled him, after 
half an hour, to start the boy's tongue. 

"Big drunk," said Twilight, pointing 
toward the door. 

"Six days. Much whisky." 

Twilight knew the futility of asking 
an Indian the source of his whisky, and 
he turned to the summer village of 

"Lots of fun, summer. Lots of boys. 
Good time. You there this summer?" 

The boy nodded, his face brightening. 

"Two months we live there in tee- 

"Then everybody go to rice harvest?" 

"All Indians go. Much rice, much 
moose. Plenty good time." 

"Better time powwow?" 

"Powwow best!" exclaimed the boy. 
"Go powwow, then go get treaty money. 
Much good time summer. Winter, 
ugh!" and he shrugged his shoulders. 

Gradually Twilight accounted for the 
breed's whereabouts throughout the 
summer, but his most subtle questions 
could not bring information as to the 
source of his money. The man lying 
outside the door wore a new suit, he 



must have had a large quantity of 
whisky, and there was a new Peterbor- 
ough canoe on the beach, all indications 
of unusual Indian wealth. 

Twilight, pretending to admire the 
new craft, led the boy to the lake. 

"Where get canoe?" 


Twilight started. Wilton was one 
hundred miles east in a straight line. 

"Wilton long way." 

"We go, my father and I. Seven 
days go. Five days come. Four days 

That made twenty-two days, count- 
ing the six Peters had been drunk. 
They had left before Billy had started 
from Sabawi and returned a week after- 
ward. But Twilight was suspicious. 

"White man's canoe go fast," he said. 

"Faster than Indian canoe," and the 
boy's face lighted. 

"Good canoe in rapids?" 

"Don't know. No rapids to Wilton. 
All lake, no river." 

Twilight looked at the unscarred bot- 
tom of the new craft. It bore out the 
boy's statements. River travel would 
have left its marks. 

"The breed may have got the other 
fellows, but he wasn't around when Billy 
was in the country," he remarked to 
Mike a little later when he turned his 
canoe southward. 

Traveling back on the main route 
between Lake Separation and Sabawi, 
Twilight, a day after leaving the breed's 
place, arrived at the little lake on 
which Squaw Bill Dennison lived. Af- 
ter crossing the portage, he waited un- 
til darkness before making camp in a 
bay. The next morning found him 
hidden in the brush as he had hidden 
at the breed's place. 

But no smoke, no human movement, 
rewarded his long vigil. In the mid- 
dle of the forenoon he made a circuit 
through the brush until he was close 
to the rear of the cabin. There was 
no sound. He sensed that indescribable 
air of desertion with which the woods- 
man is so familiar and immediately 
walked openly to the door. It was 
closed but not locked. Without hesi- 
tation Twilight entered. 

For fifteen minutes he stood in the 

center of the room. Then he walked 
cautiously about, moving things only 
when necessary. His examination com- 
pleted, he went outside and studied the 
ground about the cabin and the trail 
down to the lake. At the sand beach 
he looked carefully for signs. Sud- 
denly he gave expression to the Indian 
exclamation of wonder, a peculiar cluck- 
ing of the tongue. At last he walked 
up the shore to the bay where he had 
left his canoe and pack in Mike's care. 
Paddling openly out into the lake and 
on southward, he was thoughtful for 
half an hour. 

"Well, old wolf, we're getting some- 
where," he began at last. "Finding 
Billy's canoe showed that something had 
happened to him, though it might have 
been most anything. Finding this," and 
he drew from a pocket a buckskin pouch 
with the letters "W. MK." worked in 
beads on one side, "shows that Billy's 
been robbed, with the chances about a 
hundred to one that he's killed. It's 
the bag he carried his money in and he 
had all his share of that Wild Potato 
Lake reward and some more, too, when 
he left us to come up here. 

"Finding the bag in Squaw Bill's 
shack seems to point pretty strong to 
him being the one, and I believe he is. 
But it isn't the only thing I found 
there, and it's got me guessing worse 
than the puzzles they have in the Mon- 
treal paper. Here's what I found, and 
what I think might be. You can fig- 
ure it out to suit yourself. 

"Squaw Bill left his shack early one 
morning, about a week ago, I should 
judge, expecting to be back that night. 
There was a batch of sour-dough bread 
on the table, all wrapped up in a cloth, 
cooling off. Probably baked it while 
he was eating breakfast. A man 
wouldn't make a baking of bread if he 
didn't intend to come back. 

"Then there was a pot of beans in 
the oven, just about done, all ready for 
a good supper when he got in at night. 
He must have had a long day's trip, 
for he left in a hurry. He hadn't made 
his bed nor washed the plate and cup 
he ate breakfast from, and", by the looks 
of his cabin, he's a neat housekeeper. 

"His canoe is a birchbark, from the 



marks It left in the sand where he 
turned it over, and there was a couple 
of rocks he kept to weight it down. 
I could see a place where he run it 
onto the beach. It hasn't rained for 
seven days, and the last time his canoe 
was turned over it was raining, for 
there were little holes in the sand where 
the water had dripped down off of it. 
There were marks of shoepacs made in 
wet sand where he had lifted the canoe 
and carried it to the water and where he 
had stepped into it. He must have left 
the morning after the rain. 

"But someone else has been in that 
cabin since Squaw Bill left it, Mike, 
and he came in a white man's canoe 
and landed right where Dennison shoved 
off. The man wore smooth-soled shoes 
and he went up to the cabin and looked 
into everything from top to bottom. He 
even pulled up half the floor poles. 
Squaw Bill must have scrubbed the 
floor the day before he left, for it was 
mighty clean. But it's a hewed pole 
floor, and the dust wedged in the cracks 
has been loosened and some of it left 
on top of the floor. Whoever was there 
was hunting mighty close for something 
he wanted. 

"This bag of Billy's was lying on the 
floor. If Squaw Bill isn't the man who 
got Billy, how did that bag get there? 
It looks like Squaw Bill, and I think it 
was, but there is this point. The bag 
lay on the floor, and on top of some of 
the dirt that had been loosened from 
between the floor poles. Now you know 
everything I know. 

"If I was to figure it out, I'd put it 
this way: Squaw Bill is the fellow that 
killed Pat McConnell, the lad from the 
States, and Billy. He got them some- 
where near here, when they were pass- 
ing. Anyone going north would have 
to turn that long point by his place. 
When he saw them coming, 'way down 
the lake, all he'd have to do would be 
to run out on that point, pot them with 
his rifle, and then go out with his canoe 
and get what he could. Of course, he 
didn't want to leave any tracks around 
there, so he took their canoes down to 
White Otter Lake and turned them 
adrift. To make it look sure the rapids 
did it, he smashed Pat's up a bit. 

"Billy had a good stake with him, 
and this Dennison, after getting it, 
thought he had worked the game enough 
and decided to leave the country. The 
bread and the beans might have been a 
blind, one you'd expect from a man 
smooth enough to figure out the rest of 
it. The breed saw him leaving toward 
Wilton and sneaked down and got the 
whisky. That would explain the 
breed's being drunk, for, according to 
his kid, the drunk began about the time 
Squaw Bill left. The breed found the 
empty bag after he had lifted the floor 
poles and threw it down there. It was 
his new Peterborough that landed at 
Dennison's. That's all reasonable, isn't 

The dog, which had been listening 
attentively, carefully arose, stretched, 
and then curled up on his other side and 
went to sleep. 

"But, listen, Mike," expostulated 
Twilight. "That's only one way of 
looking at it. The man who went to 
Dennison's cabin had smooth-soled 
shoes. The breed wore moccasins, and 
I didn't see any shoes in his house. So 
it might not have been the breed, al- 
though the whisky makes it look so. It 
might have been someone else, maybe 
someone who was in with Dennison 
and put him out of the way and then 
came up to get his share of the loot. 
That sounds reasonable, too, for the 
bread and beans might not have been 
a blind. 

"Then there is just the bare chance 
that it was someone else altogether who 
got Pat and the kid and Billy and who 
got Squaw Bill, too, and then came up 
and left that bag there to make it appear 
that Squaw Bill was the robber. Those 
things are all possible, and some of them 
are reasonable, though I believe the most 
reasonable thing is that Squaw Bill did 
it all and then skipped after getting 
Billy, and that the breed came down 
after seeing Squaw Bill go by. 

"But, before we go any farther, I'm 
going down to Caribou Lake portage 
and see what happened there." 

It was late in the afternoon when he 
reached it. There was a muddy take- 
off, and Twilight motioned Mike back 
into the canoe when the dog started to 



jump ashore. Standing up, he looked 
at the ground. 

"See those footprints made just after 
the rain, Mike," he said, pointing with 
his paddle. "Those are Squaw Bill's 
shoepacs, just like those on his landing. 
And they're going only one way. He 
went out this way when he left that day, 
but he never came back. Maybe he 
went to Sabawi, getting there after dark 
and sneaking onto the night train, for 
he hasn't been seen down there. 

"And there ain't any sign of anyone 
being here since he was. That makes 
it look like the breed is the one who 
went to his shack. Things are just as 
I figured them, Mike, except that I 
thought Squaw Bill went out by way 
of Wilton. 

"There ain't any sign of Billy on 
this portage. He went over before that 
last hard rain, and tKere ain't any rocks 
for him to leave paint on. Maybe the 
other end of the portage is different. 
We'll go across and see." 

He shouldered both pack and canoe 
and started. For a half mile he walked 
steadily and then set down his double 
burden to rest. 

"Well, look here, Mike!" he ex- 
claimed, bending over the trail. "That 
fellow with the smooth-soled shoes came 
and went over this portage. There's his 
tracks, the same that were on Squaw 
Bill's beach. Now why didn't he keep 
to the trail?" 

Twilight resumed his work, and when 
he had completed the mile portage, again 
looked for tracks. He found only the 
imprint of Squaw Bill's shoepacs. 

"That fellow landed somewhere else 
and walked on the trail only in the 
narrow place between the high rocks, 
where he had to," Mike was informed. 
"But if he was so careful here, why 
wasn't he careful on the sand at Squaw 
Bill's? Guess he thought the rain or 
waves would wash out his tracks in the 

Twilight examined the shore and the 
trail carefully, but he could find no 
traces of his partner having passed that 
way. In the dry clay he saw the faint 
imprints of many moccasined feet, traces 
of the Indians who had come down for 
their treaty money and returned a month 

before. Only Squaw Bill's tracks were 
on top of these. 

"I wouldn't be sure, after that rain, 
but it looks as though Billy never got 
this far," he mused. "And, if he didn't, 
how did Squaw Bill get him? That 
don't make my reasoning appear so 
reasonable, does it? The only thing 
we've learned here is that old Marvin 
is the man who went up to Squaw Bill's 
cabin. He saw Dennison go by and 
sneaked up to get a bottle. Didn't walk 
on the portage because he thought Den- 
nison would be right back and see his 
tracks. And he's got a white man's 
canoe, the canvas one the kid's father 
gave him. We'll just go down and see 
if he's got smooth-soled shoes and if his 
canoe's got a keel. The one that landed 
at Squaw Bill's didn't." 

Twilight paddled southward in the 
gathering darkness. In half an hour he 
saw a light on the east shore, and know- 
ing it could be only that from Marvin's 
cabin, turned his canoe toward it. 

"Now wait a minute, Mike," he 
whispered after a few minutes. "We 
don't want to overlook anything. 
We've got our minds set on it's being 
Squaw Bill when it might be this old 
Marvin. Anyway, if we learn anything 
from him, we can't go at it too carefully. 
If Billy went by here, Marvin would 
have seen him. And we can't ask the 
sort of questions we would like if we 
were traveling south instead of north. 
We'll slip on by in the dark and come 
back in the morning." 

Twilight turned his canoe toward 
the middle of the lake and paddled un- 
til the light had disappeared behind him. 
Then he made camp in a bay and went 
to sleep. He was in no hurry in the 
morning, and it was after eight o'clock 
before he had paddled the mile to Mar- 
vin's cabin. 

Twilight knew the type before he had 
seen more than the old man's back as 
he bent and swayed over a crosscut saw 
in the little clearing between the cabin 
and the lake. Neat cabin, neat cloth- 
ing, neat little garden within its fence 
of cedar pickets, wood cut and stacked 
in neat, even piles — all indicated the old 
woodsman, the man who had spent all 
his life in the forest, much of it alone, 



and who was as cranky about his house- 
keeping, as methodical in his work, as 
any old woman of the towns. A few 
traps, an odd job now and then, and 
he obtained enough to live on as com- 
fortably as he desired. 

Marvin greeted his visitor with the 
pleasure and the close, quick scrutiny 
of the lone forest dweller. He walked 
down to the beach and began at once 
to rid himself of long bottled and unin- 
teresting gossip and opinions. Twilight 
sat down on the woodpile and waited 
patiently for an opportunity to direct 
the conversation as he wished. While 
he whittled a piece of pine he noted that 
Marvin wore smooth-soled shoes, that 
the canvas canoe on the beach was with- 
out a keel. 

"Nice little place you've got here," 
he said w T hen the old man paused. 
"How's fur around here?" 

"I don't do much," Marvin replied. 
"I'm getting a little old to have out 
many traps. But there's enough to buy 
flour and tea and pork. Trapping ain't 
what it used to be. Too much poison 
scattered around." 

"Where do you sell your fur?" asked 

"Some to Squaw Bill and some to the 
storekeeper in Sabawi. Play one against 
the other. That's the only way a trap- 
per can get any kind of a price." 

"What would be the chances of a 
good buyer coming into this district?" 

"Mighty good. There's a lot of In- 
dians north of here, and a couple of 
white men farther east. Jessup and 
Squaw Bill ain't paying what they 

"I been thinking of coming in here 
this winter, but I heard at Sabawi that 
another fellow came up two or three 
weeks ago, looking the district over." 

"Tall, reddish fellow?" 

"I never saw him." 

"Green canoe?" 

"Didn't hear." 

"A fellow like that did go by two 
weeks ago, but he didn't say anything 
about buying fur. Maybe he was keep- 
ing it quiet." 

Twilight stopped his whittling and 
looked out over the lake, his glance rest- 
ing for ;i moment on the other's face. 

"The only way to work this fur game 
is to combine," he said. "No use buck- 
ing everybody. What sort of a fellow 
is this Squaw Bill? Near's I can find 
out, he would be a good buyer if he let 
booze alone and 'tended strictly to 

"You've said it right, mister. Too 
much for himself, and, they all say, too 
much for the Indians. But he's a slick 

"Guess I'll go up and see him. Has 
he been down this way lately?" 

"Not for nearly a month. He don't 
get down often." 

Twilight snapped shut the blade of 
his knife and stood up, again looking 
quickly at the old man's face as he did 
so. He found only honesty, honesty so 
evident that for a moment he doubted 
the footprints he had seen on the port- 
age and at Squaw Bill's. 

Puzzled, he walked toward the beach. 
Marvin had seen Billy pass. He seemed 
honest and simple as his type generally 
was, but Twilight knew that he had 
told some untruths. "Perhaps to cover 
up that trip of his to Dennison's place," 
he decided. 

The old man followed him to the 

"Going up to Squaw Bill's?" he 

"Yes. Think I'll find him there?" 

"He's most generally at home. If 
you're going up, you can save most a 
mile of packing by taking another route. 
It's a little longer but only a short 

Twilight halted and turned sharply 
toward Marvin, who was just behind. 
But by the time the old man saw his 
face he had hidden his amazement. 

"Where's that?" he asked simply. 

"Straight across the lake, right north 
of that big white pine about fifty paces. 
Squaw Bill cut it out two years ago. 
The trail goes over the ridge in that 
low place and into a lake just west of 
this. A river flows out of it into the 
lake above, and you miss that mile port- 

Though this information explained 
several things to Twilight, it puzzled 
him more, and he sparred while he col- 
lected his thoughts. 



"The map shows it as the north end 
of this lake," he said. 

"Yes, but this one of Squaw Bill's 
is shorter. I've never been over it, but 
he's told me about it." 

"No one's more glad than I am to 
miss a long portage, and I'll thank you 
and Squaw Bill for this." 

Perplexed, mystified, Twilight pad- 
dled away. After a few minutes he 
heard Marvin's saw in its slow, steady 
movement. Turning, he saw the old 
man's back, bent and swaying. 

"What do you make of all that, 
Mike?" he asked when he was out of 
hearing. "Worse and worse. This 
portage explains some things, but it 
don't explain itself. If it's a short way, 
why didn't the Indians take it, and why 
didn't Marvin when he went to Squaw 
Bill's and Squaw Bill when he came 
down? And the old man says it's been 
cut two years. 

"It shows one thing, and that is that 
it's Squaw Bill we're after. It can't be 
old Marvin. I don't think he's that 
sort, and, besides, how could an old 
cripple like him do away with three 
good men? He just let Squaw Bill 
use him without knowing it." 

The portage, unblazed, was hidden 
in a cove, but Twilight found it from 
Marvin's description. And the second 
thing he found was a smudge of green 
paint on the rocks. 

"Billy went this way," Twilight ex- 
claimed. "He landed here. And that 
tells a lot of things. Squaw Bill got 
him beyond here somewhere and then 
packed his canoe over into White Otter 
Lake and. set it adrift. And, after 
making the three hauls this summer, he 
skipped the country. He cut this trail 
and told the old man about it, that it 
was an easier way to the next lake north. 
Now we're going to find out what hap- 
pened to Billy." 

He pulled his canoe up and, as he 
lifted his pack from it, heard the sound 
of Marvin's saw from across the lake. 
Mike at his heels, he started across the 
portage. In the brush he stopped. 

"Two years nothing, Mike!" he cried. 
"See those brush cuttings? They'fe 
fresh, made this year. Those willow 
buds were last spring's." 

He picked up some of the brush and 
examined it. 

"Cut about the middle of May," he 
muttered, "and there's no old cuttings. 
The trail's hardly been used at all." 

He went on, walking slowly, stop- 
ping after a hundred yards at a place 
in the black loam which seemed to have 
been torn by a pawing buck. Mike 
sniffed at it curiously and then turned 
into the brush, whining and smelling as 
he went. Twilight Jack followed and 
saw that something had been dragged, 
flattening the sweetfern and other 
ground growth. He hurried on after 
the dog, up a slope and into a spruce 

Together they found the body, half 
hidden by limbs broken from nearby 
saplings. Twilight did not need to 
turn it over to see the face. He recog- 
nized his partner, as did the dog, and 
stood silently, while Mike whined and 
the hair on his neck and back stood 
erect. Later he stooped to examine it 
and found a great hole in the right side. 

"Buckshot, Mike, buckshot," he 
whispered as he arose. "Potted from 
beside the trail by that w T hisky-peddling 
cur of a Squaw Bill. He cut this port- 
age, out of the way, and told old Mar- 
vin about it so that he would send peo- 
ple this way. And then he killed them 
and took what they had. After dark 
he would take the canoes back to White 
Otter Lake so that people would think 
they drowned. 

"And that explains why he hasn't 
been at his shack. He hasn't left the 
country. He's got another cabin near 
here, probably over on this lake farther 
west, and he's around now, probably 
waiting to pot us. Let's go back and 
see if he is," he exclaimed fiercely. 

Silently the man and the dog crept 
back to the trail and down to the lake. 
Lifting his pack, Twilight carried it 
into the thick brush beside the trail and 
unbuckled the straps. He drew out his 
take-down rifle, assembled and loaded it, 
and then, twenty feet to one side of the 
trail, crept noiselessly up the slope. The 
grip on his rifle tightened as he passed 
the trail over which Billy's body had 
been dragged, but for one hundred 
yards he kept on. 



Then Mike stopped him. The dog 
whined softly and started up the north 
slope, his nose to the ground. Twilight 
saw sweetfern crushed as it had been 
where Billy's body was dragged away, 
and he turned after the dog. At the 
top of the ridge he found w T hat he 
sought. For a minute he could not 
speak, so great was his amazement. 

"Squaw Bill!" he exclaimed. "That's 
his red beard and red hair the hotel 
man told me about, and there's his shoe- 
pacs. No wonder he never got back for 
those beans." 

He bent over and found the man's 
right side torn by a load of buckshot. 
Straightening, he listened intently. 
From down the slope and across the 
lake came the "clop, clop" of an axe at 
Marvin's cabin. 

"Mike," he demanded in his perplex- 
ity, "what is it all? It wasn't Squaw 
Bill, and it ain't old Marvin, or he 
would have been laying for us. And 
how could he send a man by this port- 
age and then get over here and shoot 
him? It's the breed, Mike. That kid 
fooled me clear through, and I thought 
I knew Indians." 

He hurried back to the trail, where 
he signaled Alike to remain. Then, 
crouching, moving slowly and silently, 
Twilight disappeared in the brush. 
Parallel to the trail and not far from it 
he crept. Often he stopped to listen, 
to peer ahead through the thick growth. 
Then, as he turned around a huge boul- 
der, he saw that which made him aban- 
don his caution and stand still in amaze- 

Lashed to two strong saplings and 
roofed by a piece of birch bark, w T as a 
double barreled shotgun. Attached to 
the triggers was a cord which, in turn, 
was tied to a piece of brush thrown 
across the trail, altogether the deadliest 

affair a man could possibly contrive. 

Twilight's astonishment disappeared 
immediately he realized the significance 
of what he had found. He turned past 
the trap and hurried up the portage 
trail. Around a bend, less than twenty 
yards beyond, it ended. He ran back 
to the shotgun, pausing for a moment 
with his hand on the string. Faintly 
there came to him the sound of old 
Marvin chopping at the woodpile. Then 
Twilight pulled the string and, before 
the sound of the double discharge had 
died away, was running back to Mike. 
Leading the dog into the brush, he sig- 
naled him to keep quiet. 

"We've got him, Mike, old boy, the 
man who killed Billy and the others, 
although he nearly got us, Mike, mighty 
near got us." 

Twilight listened. The chopping 
had ceased. 

"He's coming for us, Mike," he 
whispered. "He cut this trail and sent 
Pat over it first, telling him it was a 
shorter route. Then he sent the lad 
from the States, and then Billy, and 
when old Squaw Bill came down last 
w T eek he told him he had cut a shorter 
way into the next lake and sent him 
over. After that he went up and got 
whatever Dennison had and left Billy's 
bag for a blind." 

For ten minutes Twilight listened in- 

"Dow T n, Mike," he whispered. "Keep 
quiet now." 

He peered through the brush down 
the trail tow r ard the lake. At last, 
around the bend came the old man, his 
face wrinkled in a contented smile, but 
with eyes that were now crafty, evil. He 
hurried on and then stopped, too terror- 
stricken to relax a grin that had become 
ghastly as Twilight stepped into the. 
trail, his rifle ready. 

Next Month "The Snowshoes That 
Swung Wide." Twilight Jack defeats 
the Fate that has been dogging 
the heels of the Survey Party 



A Tale of Hunger, Fatigue, Frost-Bite, and Woe on a Little 

Illinois River 

==5= S OUR times during the past 
eventful twelve months have 

< I gone forth to catch little 

fishes and found hunger, 
fatigue, sunstroke, frost-bites 
and woe. And the last time 
was the worst. Three of the experiences 
were endured in Kansas, but this last 
calamity happened up on the Fox River 
at a point about halfway between Chi- 
cago and Elgin, Illinois. 

I had sworn off after the Cedar Creek 
massacre. But this time I was seduced 
by stories of the grand bass fishing in the 
north country. The fish in these North- 
ern lakes and rivers were so plentiful 
and they bit so hard and often that really 
it was no sport at all to harvest them 
into the boat. And Fox River was the 
star fishing stream of the north country. 
That was the story my Chicago friends 
told me, and with my experience and 
better judgment hammering on the pan 
of my brain for a hearing, I listened to 
that story. 

I give it as my opinion that there are 
no fish in the world. There are none 
in Kansas. None in Fox River. None 
in Missouri. No, I'll take that back — 
about none in the world. There are 
codfish off Newfoundland and salmon in 
the Oregon River. But I am offering 
a reward for fish caught with a line in 
my presence anywhere else inland or 
outland in the waters of the rivers, the 
bays or the ocean. There are no fish. 

I am no fisherman. Why, I wonder, 
do my friends insist that I always go 
fishing when I have a leisure hour or 
day? All my friends seem to be fisher- 
men, but they never catch any fish — 
except me. 

I have fished in Mill Creek, Lynn 
Creek, Cedar Creek and Fox River; 

fished high, low, jack, and the game, 
and never a fish has come to me for sym- 
pathy. And I suppose that next winter 
some false friend will want me to go 
with him to break a hole in the ice and 
spear the fish when they come up for air. 

Yes, I went to Chicago for a change 
of air and occupation and, while I wan- 
dered around the loop district looking 
for a restaurant that served meals for 
twenty cents I met an old friend of my 
boyhood, Boyles by name. We had 
played ball together and I loved him 
like a brother. I thought he was still 
my friend. He took me to his house out 
in Evanston on the lake front and there 
he treated me as Foquet did the visiting 

I went down in the early morning 
light to the shores of Lake Michigan 
and sat there and watched the little 
waves chase the big ones across the face 
of this inland sea and all of them die 
on the shore. And the race of those 
waves seemed to me like the race of 
men through life, with death on the 
sands of the shoreless sea at the end. 

But this man Boyles dragged me away 
from the lake and my rest and my phil- 
osophy and comfort and regal meals and 
luxurious room with his wild-eyed tales 
and wilder longings for the Fox River 
and the myth of the fishes that used 
to inhabit its waters. Yes, and he had 
a brother-in-law, a red-headed oyster 
pirate named Russell, who was crazier 
than Boyles over this fishing dream. 
Not Peter and the other eleven apostle- 
fishermen ever made such a catch the 
night they burst their nets under the 
spell of a miracle as had this Boyles- 
Russell outfit on some previous trip to 
Fox River. They lied ; ah, they lied, 
did these two, about the fish in Fox 




River, even as the countless children 
of time have lied from the beginning 
about the numbers and weight of the 
fish they caught in days that had gone by. 

I was not entirely their dupe. I did 
not believe half they said, but I evidently 
believed enough, for they lugged me off 
with them about fifty miles southwest of 
Chicago and we took with us an army 
tent and a skillet to protect us from 
the elements and to save us from starva- 

It's a sad story, mates, but it must 
be told. 

Fair but False 

We landed at a town called Mc- 
Henry at the noon hour of as fine a 
summer day as ever bloomed in the new 
world. Transhipped from train to row- 
boat and started up the Fox River. 
While my thoughts are bitter about 
many things that had to do with that 
trip, yet gentle truth bids me say that 
the Fox River is the most beautiful 
stream that flows down to the seven 
seas. It slips along between grassy 
banks that look like the parkings of a 
well-kept lawn. Noble shade trees 
adorn the banks back from the river. 
The water is deep and blue, the current 
sluggish. There are no bars or tow- 
heads to vex the soul of the boatmen; 
no snags, no shoals — one of those rivers 
that you read about in the books where 
all things are well. There were hun- 
dreds of motorboats on its waters day 
and night, and I should think there 
would be. It is a stream made to order 
for the boatman and the lover of a 
noble stream. 

We rowed laboriously in a boat that 
was a cross between a tub and a swivel 
chair and after three hours of hard 
labor came to a place above a bridge 
that Boyles swore was the best fishing 
grounds in the universe. We landed on 
the right bank. A wooden hotel stood 
near the bridge on our side and a little 
old Dutch town nestled in the hills 
across the river. Johnsburg they called 

Pitched camp in a grove on the river 
bank. Fine looking place. Grass and 
trees and sunshine. The river rippled 

in the sunlight like a beautiful story on 
a crystal page. 

Boyles and Russell rigged up that 
army tent and the three cots filled it like 
a sardine can. Then they dragged out 
enough fishing tackle to catch enough 
fish to keep a cannery busy all winter. 
They gave me a fussy steel pole and a 
silver reel and a mile of silk line and 
we all climbed into that leaky boat and 
went fishing. 

At sunset I mutinied and threatened 
to upset the boat and those stark, staring 
fishermen consented to pull for the 
shore. Not a bite. Not a nibble. Not 
a flirtation with a single fish, turtle or 
eel. Now in Kansas we would at least 
have lost our bait from the visitations 
of a turtle. We were fishing with live 
frogs for bait. And I forgot to state 
that we almost missed our McHenry 
train from Chicago on account of those 
frogs. Bought 'em alive from a depart? 
merit store on State Street. We ought 
to have done our fishing in that store. 
We'd have caught more fish. 

It was dusk when we landed at the 
camp. That summer day had fled to 
join the others that had gone before. 
And the wind that blew from the north 
across that river had icicles in its breath. 
I was fresh from Kansas where the days 
had recently been 100 and the nights 
89, and I was no more fit for that night 
than a Panama hat weaver would be for 
hunting polar bears in Baffin's Bay. 

We fumbled around in the dark and 
cooked supper over the camp-fire, and 
I spoke words to those fishermen cal- 
culated to make the sons of Job rise up 
and go to war. The supper we ate 
would have lasted nine men in town for 
a week. The wind picked up a little 
more speed and some one turned on the 
ammonia pipes full blast and it began to 
get cold. That summer day just passed 
seemed to have drifted so far astern that 
it had become some half-remembered 
recollection of my boyhood. 

We fed that camp-fire with old dry 
wood and sat around it and talked about 
the old days and the old boys we had 
known. It was all very fine, after all. 
And then we crawled into that tent and 
each man went to bed in his little cot. 
Feeling fine. We sat up and sang old 



songs. Boyles called it harmony, but 
his prejudice in favor of our music was 
as strong as concentrated lye mixed with 
a little water. 

I went to sleep at last. I may have 
slept an hour or an hour and a half at 
the most when I waked up freezing to 
death. Cold! Name of a name! but it 
was cold. I had a cheesecloth quilt un- 
der me and a diaphanous quilt over me 
and the cold passed through to my bones 
like going through a screen door left 

I got up and put on my coat and 
raincoat and shoes and then crawled 
under that quilt again. No go. The 
cold wind from Canada walked up and 
down my person with blue feet. I shiv- 
ered and sighed and cursed the man who 
invented fishing. Then from over on 
the other side of the tent came the noise 
a man makes when pain has him in its 
clutches. Russell was sitting up in bed. 
I heard his teeth chattering. I asked 
him what ailed him. He was cold, and 
he told me so with emphasis and detail 
that left never a doubt in my mind. 

"Let's get up and make a fire," said 

"Agreed," said I. 

We did. 

Russell coaxed a lighted match and 
some kindling to be good friends while 
I wandered around in the dark like a 
duck on an iceberg looking for wood. 
We made a noble fire and huddled up 
closer to it than any lover to his sweet- 
heart. The wood was dry and burned 
out quickly. We went for more. It 
was hard to find. Now a frozen man's 
conscience is dead and buried at one 
o'clock in the morning of a situation like 
this. We stole wood. We took one of 
that hotel man's tables and a chair or 
two and an old door and chopped them 
into firewood lengths and saved two 
men from death. 

The night wore on. Boyles slept in 
that cold storage tent like a young sea 
lion or a polar bear cub. Russell and I 
sat by the fire. The wind was never 
weary. We rigged up a piece of sail- 
cloth for a windshield, using a crooked 
stick, a chair and a tree for stage prop- 
erties, working with numb fingers while 
despair lurked close by in the thicket. A 

chill came along and grabbed me and I 
laid down on the ground. I did not 
care what happened or how it was donr. 
Then this man Russell forgot his own 
woe and icicles and came to my rescue. 
He wrapped me up in my old quilt and 
added his quilt to the bundle. He made 
me a cup of boiling coffee. He. added 
reinforcements to that crazy windshield. 
He stole more wood for the fire. And I 
lay back there and watched his red 
head shining in the firelight like a lamp 
in the pilgrim valley of darkness. If 
Captain Scott had had Russell with him 
on that south pole journey he would not 
have perished in the icebergs and the 

In the Still Watches 

The night wore on some more. It 
was three o'clock by this time and cold- 
er than it was before. Boyles slept on 
in the tent like the Turk that Marco 
Bozzaris slipped up on and murdered in 
the night time. Russell and I felt like 
Marco. We threw things at the tent. 
We called out uncomplimentary words, 
but we were too hoarse to make noise 
enough to wake the sleeper. I thought 
of sunny Kansas and how I had slept 
out in the yard all summer, and why I 
did not go to Panama for my vacation. 
The moon shone on Fox River and Rus- 
sell and I looked through the leaves of 
the trees at the silver picture in a black 
frame, laced with white and tangled 
with black, clear and cold and deep and 
mysterious and beautiful. We heard 
the water lapping the bank. It was 
worth coming up there to freeze to see. 

If there had been a sentry on the 
Johnsburg bridge he would have called 
out 4 o'clock by this time. And if he 
had started to add "all is well" Russell 
and I would have had his life if we 
had to swing for it. 

We threw more things at the tent. 
Russell threw a chair with such good 
aim that it passed through the curtains 
and hit Boyles on the legs. He waked 
up and began to talk to himself. We 
talked to him. And the things we said 
would have made an abbot get up out of 
the tomb and fight. But Boyles only 
thrust his head out between the parted 



curtains to blink and grin and inquire 
why we were outside. 

We told him. And the echoes came 
back from over the river to tell him 
again. We were sore. Boyles laughed 
like a hyena. He said it was not cold. 
Swore he was warm and comfortable in- 
side that tent. Russell stopped me as 
I was crawling toward him with the 
butcher knife in my teeth. Boyles said 
that only descendants of a long line of 
star-spangled idiots would go outside a 
warm tent in the cold wind to get warm 
again. He started to argue the point 
but Russell hit him with a sack of 

By daylight I had the epizootic, the 
lumbago, the ague, catarrh, cough, cold, 
rheumatism and several minor ailments. 
Russell put me to bed in the tent, add- 
ing Bojdes' quilt to mine. I still used 
a tan raincoat for pajamas. Russell 
slept in his clothes, shoes and cap. 
Boyles kept the fire. 

When I crawled out two hours later 
Mister Sun was on the job. I thought 
I was going to die, but after I had cut 
a little wood and gone after the milk 
and eaten seven eggs for breakfast I 
changed my mind. And then that dia- 
mond sunshine thawed me out and that 
wonderful air of the north country, clear 
as truth, full of miracles, came along and 
cured me of all the nightmares and made 
me a better man than I had been for a 
year. Russell also partook of the 

We fished all over Fox River. We 
fished in the bassweed and in the rip- 
ples and in the bays. We fished from 
Dan to Beersheba and from the Eu- 
phrates to the sea. We dragged those 
little frogs through miles and miles of 
water. But the bass slept on in their 
coral beds and we were left alone. 

At this point I noted Boyles and Rus- 
sell conferring together. I caught whis- 
pers about the voyage from Nineveh and 
Jonah, and throw him overboard, etc. 
Now I have a shrewd understanding 
and sensitive nerves. I seemed to scent 
trouble. I spoke to them softly and 
asked them if they would row me to 
the bank so that I might walk to camp 
and get dinner. They did so quickly 
and without courtesy or a decent word. 

Safe on the shore I threw rocks at them 
as they rowed out into the stream. And 
I added words harder than the rocks. 

I walked to camp, walked through the 
bluegrass and under big trees and past 
fallen logs and through all the beauties 
of a glorious day. And I wondered if 
God was as good to everybody as He 
was to me that day. The outdoors is 
the most blessed miracle that can happen 
to any office man this side of the shining 
sands of the islands of the blest. And 
that is a fact. 

I made a fire at camp and placed seven 
big potatoes in the ashes of the old fire. 
I would have a treat for the fishermen 
when they returned, a hidden treat to 
be raked forth at the proper time. I 
met these absent friends of mine at the 
shore with a word of welcome and a 
smile of eloquence. But they had no 
fish and they called me names that 
shocked the woods and fields to hear. 

Faithful Are the Wounds — 

Boyles is a star cook, but Russell is 
a chef. They prepared a dinner that 
had the Blackstone's feast day menu 
looking like a raw onion and a piece of 
cheese on a chip. 

And then, just at the right time, and 
with considerable flourish, I raked out 
those seven potatoes from their little bed 
in the ashes under the fire. They looked 
like cinders from the slag in the pit. I 
ate dinner in meekness and in silence. 
Boyles and Russell talked constantly and 
the subject of their discourse was not 
pleasant. Next time I go on a trip I will 
take a serpent and a savage for company. 

The fishermen fished the afternoon 
away. I played pool with the hotel 

For supper that night we had fried 
potatoes, a dozen eggs, a can of salmon, 
three pies and two quarts of milk. Rus- 
sell drank the milk. 

And then the dark came, and with 
the dark came the cold. I looked into 
the depths of the dark and shivered. 
Forebodings sat with me at the fire. But 
Russell tucked me in that night with 
two quilts, a pair of overalls, a sweater, 
a piece of sailcloth, a gunnysack, a bale 
of hay, two suitcases and his blessing. I 



slept like the hills. I wonder if angels 
have red hair. 

The next morning when I went after 
the milk a farmer's shepherd dog chased 
me around the smokehouse seven times. 
I hit the dog with a bucket and he tore 
my trousers and a fat woman came to 
the rescue. Russell ate so much break- 
fast that he had the tummyache. The 
sun came up over the tree tops like hope 
to Egypt after the plagues. Boyles and 
I played ball. The air was of the same 
brand as the day before. 

I had not felt so well in ten years. 
Russell got over his tummyache and we 
all went fishing. Yes, I went, too. I 
cast that frog of mine upon the waters 
and it returned to me, but not seven 
fold. I cast him two hundred times by 
actual count and then I cast no more. 
I felt like a pitcher after a twelve-inning 
ball game. But this man Boyles has 
an arm of brass and the patience of a 
man who waits for a hard elm tree to 
grow. Russell also is crazy on the sub- 
ject of fishing, and they cast on until 
the little frogs were gone. But the 
bass in Fox River were not eating frogs 
that day. 

Boyles called on all the German and 
British gods of the Druid days to wit- 
ness that he had caught fish by the car 
load in that river. In his discourse he 
ranged from descriptive to emphatic, 
from earnestness to pathos. And Rus- 
sell added his tale to the tale that had 
been told and it seemed to me that the 
story would never end. I did not say, 
"I told you so." I did not rub it in. 
I was afraid to. 

Boyles and I ate dinner under the 
shade of the trees. Russell made a re- 
past. He rolled a banquet into a feast 
and added three extra skillets of fried 
potatoes for good measure. 

Then we went to Johnsburg for more 
supplies. We walked across that bridge 
and up the rocky road and into the lit- 
tle old German town. It was a pleas- 
ant journey. Three men grown young 
again. The voices of the world were 
far away. We were ragged and dirty 
and unshaven and happy. We threw 
rocks and scuffled and forgot all about 
the twenty years that had come and 
taken our youth away. We dickered 

with the shopkeepers and told outrageous 
talcs about each other. We fought over 
who should carry the groceries back. 
We walked back across the bridge sing- 
ing a little sony;. 

The men that Mirza saw on the bridge 
across the valley of the Bagdad carried 
burdens, but all we carried on that 
bridge that day was groceries. We had 
laid our burdens down the day we left 
the train at McHenry. And we were 
to pick them up again there. But the 
present was ours and it had the fairest 
face and the most radiant smile any of 
us had seen since we took our first sweet- 
hearts to our first party. And at that 
party twenty years ago it rained and 
Boyles's cotton pants shrank up above 
his shoe tops, and tragedy walked with 
him across the stage of love's young 

Back to the World 

Well, Russell ate up all the Irish po- 
tatoes in camp and Boyles ate all the 
eggs and I ate a little bite or two my- 
self. So we decided to go home. We 
folded our tent and packed our skillet 
and loaded them into that leaky boat 
and drifted down the river toward the 
world. It was a noble voyage. Boyles 
and I talked philosophy and preached 
contentment. The sunlight conjured 
us and the river hypnotized us, and it 
was all very fine. All along the grassy 
banks were summer cottages. Men and 
women walked under the trees. Motor- 
boats whizzed by every few minutes. 
Listen! Who was that singing? Boyles 
started up. It was a divine voice sing- 
ing a song the world has loved for fifty 
years. The music came across the wa- 
ters to us sweet and clear. 

"Who can it be?" murmured Bo5'les. 
"I had not dreamed there was a woman 
on this river from the springs to the 
lake who could sing so divinely." 

We listened eagerly. Pshaw! it was 
only a graphophone played on the front 
porch of one of the cottages across the 
river. But it sounded mighty fine and 
we listened till the song was done. 
Then Russell rocked the boat and 
Boyles got his feet wet, and his lan- 
guage shattered the dream of my phil- 



osophy and drove away the spell of the 
music. Russell actually seemed to enjoy 
Boyles's language more than he did my 
musing on dead peoples or the song of the 
German diva brought from Leipsic to be 
reproduced for our pleasure. 

Russell is a materialist, not a senti- 
mentalist. And well for me it is so, 
for I would have frozen in camp but 
for his necromancy with quilts. 

We had a series of adventures at 
McHenry before we caught the Chicago 
train that night. But I will not dwell 
upon them. They were merely the 
brindle fringe on the edges of the vaca- 
tion card. If there is a finer river than 
Fox River I have never seen the flow of 
its waters. If there is any finer air 
in the world than that of the north 
country in early September they ought 
to store it and sell it for a price. If 
there are any finer fellows to make a 
trip with than Boyles and Russell they 
ought to be in the hall of fame or draw- 
ing a thousand a week in vaudeville. 

The hardships of that trip were many. 
I nearly died up there. The fish were 
few. The water was awful wet and the 
mud sticky. But by all the gods and 

goddesses! it was the finest trip I ever 
knew. And I say to the office man of 
Kansas, Missouri, Illinois or any other 
state, if you want to renew your lost 
youth and meet happiness face to face 
and find something that will come to you 
through the years again and again in the 
form of sweet-faced memory, get a pup 
tent, a skillet and a friend like Boyles 
and a red-headed prince like Russell and 
go to Fox River somewhere close to the 
Johnsburg bridge. It will be a classic 
in your humdrum life and the thoughts 
of it and the good of it will abide for 
long and longer still. 

But you will have to be a son of Lief 
the Lucky if you find a Boyles and a 
Russell to make that trip. A singer like 
Boyles and a cook like Russell. 

Hold on ! I cannot end this story like 
this! In justice to Fox River I must 
add a word. I am no fisherman, as I 
said before. But there was a fish. Yes, 
Russell caught a two-pound bass on that 
trip. And as we sailed for McHenry an 
old fisherman told us the Fox River bass 
were biting bacon that week and not 
frogs. He caught 'em by the gross with 
the meat of the hog. That's all. 



How the Red Gods Slipped "Waubose" Olsen an Ace and the 
Wilderness Lost — One Pot 

OMEONE fired a rifle on the 
Black Lake portage, pumped 
in a fresh load, and passed on 
out of this story. "Waubose" 
Olsen found the spent case, a 
glint of yellow on the packed 
snow of the trail. He picked it up, as a 
woman picks up a card left in her ab- 
sence. The shell, a .40-82, denoted the 
passage of a stranger unless one of the 
trapper's neighbors had been guilty of 
the extravagance of a new rifle. 

At any rate, the shell itself was strange 
to Olsen. As he kicked along on his 
snowshoes he spelled out laboriously the 

letters and figures stamped on its head 
to denote its make and caliber. These 
told him little. He raised his hand to 
toss it aside. 

With his hand he raised his eyes and 
saw, swaying on the twig where he had 
hung it to mark a retrieved and forgotten 
cache, a spent case from his own .49-90. 

Instead of throwing away the strange 
shell "Waubose" reached down his own 
empty for comparison. Placed head to 
head, the two showed an equal size. 
Compared muzzle to muzzle, the .45 
slipped over the .40 for about two- 
thirds of its length. Then the straight 



shell hound tight on the tapering body 
of the other, so tight that there was a 
sucking sound as he wrenched them 
apart, which told of a joint impervious 
to air — or water. 

Un wasteful, as a woodsman must be, 
Olsen stood still to consider what use 
might be made of this tight brass case. 

It may be that the Red Gods, who 
if not given to know the future are at 
least rich in the wisdom of things past, 
stayed his hand as he was about to cast 
it away useless. It is possible that their 
medicine was strong enough that morn- 
ing to force a flash of inspiration through 
Olsen's brain; 

At any rate he did reopen the chance- 
formed box and fill it with matches — - 
five of them — from the loose supply in 
his pocket. 

Spring was already sapping the 
strength of winter. Olsen made slow 
work of his long trap-line. About many 
of his traps the melting snow of the 
day before had frozen, rendering them 
useless. By noon the snow underfoot 
began to stick to his webs. In an hour 
more he was compelled to cut a club and 
beat viciously against his snowshoe frames 
every few steps to free them from the 
clogging mass. 

Belated and tired, he abandoned his 
farther traps to another day, left his 
packed and proven winter trail and 
struck the shortest line for home. Be- 
tween him and his shack stretched Black 
Bay, a level, untrodden expanse of snow. 

Ten yards from shore Olsen found 
himself fighting with cold fury to climb 
out of a widening circle of black water, 
a circle which marked where wind- 
packed snow had masked rotted ice. As 
he felt the sinking beneath his feet Ol- 
sen had hurled his rifle toward the shore. 
As soon as he got an elbow rest on 
the crumbling ice-rim he twisted his 

feet out of the snowshoe thongs, tied 
with just such emergencies in view. 

Then, foot by foot, with fists and 
finger-nails and elbows — while the chill 
of the water seared him like molten lead 
— Olsen fought his way through the 
sponge ice to the shore. 

As he hauled himself to land his 
soaked clothes froze about him. Be- 
tween him and the shelter of his cabin 
lay a mile of treacherous ice. Or, if he 
did not care to risk that, he might wal- 
low waist-deep through the drifts as he 
skirted the shore of the bay. A sharper 
pinch of cold summoned him to move, 
make fire, or lay down his hand and let 
the Wilderness rake in his chips. 

From the pocket where he kept his 
matches Olsen scooped a freezing mess 
of wet sticks, phosphorescent slime — and 
the waterproof match-box he had found, 
fashioned and filled that morning. 

Bark of the birch, dead stems of the 
aiders, and dried branches of the spruce, 
and after them driftwood, deadw r ood — 
all the careless largess of the woods — 
kindled from the flame of the first of 
the trapper's five dry matches. 

Half an hour later he sat, stark naked, 
with his back against a warm rock and 
his clothing steaming by the fire before 
him. With his rifle across his knees 
he sat; listening to the thumping ap- 
proach of a rabbit across the freezing 
snow; waiting until his supper lured by 
the flames should come into the circle 
of firelight. In the bitter cold of dawn 
he walked home, warm inside his dry 
garments and striding freely over the 
solid snow crust. 

"You trappers certainly meet with 
many adventures," said the summer 
camper to whom "Waubose" told this 
incident across the evening smudge. 

"Naw," said Olsen, "nothing but 
hard work." 

Last fall John Oskison was in Arizona. There he heard of 
some wonderful cliff dwellings across the desert to the north, A 
Bureau of Ethnology Bulletin told him how to find them — and 
told him wrong. The result is "The Road to Betatakin" begin- 
ning in July OUTING. But he reached his goal nevertheless. 



Illustrated with Diagrams by the Author 

Some New Ways of Carrying the Personal Duffle on Camping 

and Canoeing Trips 

^^HE duffle, war, ditty, 
dunnage, orwangan bag 
is about the unhandiest 
contrivance used by the 
wilderness dweller. It 
has only one merit: it 
keeps things together in a small bulk; 
but its convenience ends as soon as camp 
is reached. Every time anything is 
wanted it has to be more or less com- 
pletely unpacked, for the article will al- 
most surely be found at the bottom of 
the bag. 

Personally I regard the duffle-bag only 
as a means of transport. It is worthless 
as a place to store things in camp — ex- 
cept, perhaps, one or two things that can 
be slipped in and the bag hung up some- 
where out of the way. A two years' 
daily use of a war-bag forever convinced 
me that it is not the contrivance for a 
minister's son to keep his personal be- 
longings in. 

Besides the inconvenience of a war- 
bag, it does not keep clothing in good 
condition. Even its warmest advocate 
cannot claim that it keeps things clean; 
at all events, a shirt or a suit of under- 
wear taken out of a bag packed in the 
usual way never feels clean. As for the 
smaller articles of daily use, the war-bag 
is a mighty poor contrivance to keep 
them in. 

The "old-timer" in the Southwest 
who uses a piece of eight-ounce duck 
about three by four feet to make his 
"roll" with has something which is not 
only more convenient, but keeps the arti- 
cles in much better shape. A shirt comes 
out like a shirt and not like a dish-cloth. 
Moreover, clothing kept this way un- 
doubtedly lasts longer than if kept in a 
bag, especially when the stuff is trans- 


ported on mule-back. As an Arizona 
prospector packs his roll, dust and dirt 
cannot enter and it will stand a con- 
siderable ducking without the contents 
getting wet. I have seen a roll, with 
8-oz. waterproofed duck, under a mule 
bogged down for ten minutes in a quick- 
sand of the Bill Williams Fork, and yet 
nothing inside the roll was even as much 
as wetted. 

While I use the roll a great deal, it 
must be acknowledged that it is by no 
means the acme of convenience. It is 
useful mainly to carry reserve clothing 
and articles wanted occasionally. 

One day in camp, about ten years ago, 
I designed a wallet that seems to me 
rational and has very greatly added to 
comfort on the trail ever since. It not 
merely carries things, but does so in 
such a way that they can be conveniently 
got at. One or two were made before 
I was satisfied that the dimensions, etc., 
were just right. Then I had a wallet 
made by the trunkmaker who does my 
work, and it cost me, I think, $1.50. 
The one I use now has traveled several 
thousand miles, in all kinds of country, 
during the last eight years. It looks as 
if it will never wear out. 

The ideas and specifications of con- 
struction are much as follows: The 
sketch appended is a copy of the one fur- 
nished to the workmen. It shows a 
piece of canvas, 8-ounce khaki duck, cut 
21 by 29 inches, turned over a half inch 
at each edge and hemmed with stout 
linen thread, leaving it 20 by 28 inches. 
The canvas strip was lined with a rrood 
quality of heavy linen. 

Five inches from the narrow edge of 
the canvas a strip of linen, cut 9 by 21 
inches, was sewn, the stitching being 






Tj " "' 

5- 8 oz. Khaki 
...le. - 



8 oz. Khaki 







:.--l » 


...'J JL- 





parallel to the 20-inch edge of the can- 
vas and passing through both canvas and 
lining. Ten inches from this seam a 
similar piece of linen was stitched to the 
canvas in a similar way. Two flaps are 
thus formed. Between these flaps, at 
each end of the 10 x 20 compartment, a 
linen strip, cut 9 by 1 1 inches, is stitched 
to the edge of the canvas. 

The edges of the linen flaps are all 
hemmed. To each of the flaps pieces of 
strong linen tape are sewn, so that when 
folded they can be kept in place by dou- 
ble bow knots. In the compartments 
made in this way shirts, underwear, etc., 
are kept. 

At the large, unoccupied part of the 
canvas a piece of linen, cut 11 by 25 
inches, is sewn so as to form a large 
pocket. The mouth opens inward and is 
protected by a linen flap, 5 inches wide, 
sewn to the canvas. This protection is 
perhaps not necessary. 

The large pocket is divided into three 
compartments by two double lines of 
stitches. The double stitching is neces- 
sary. It will have been noticed that the 
linen for the pocket was cut 25 inches; 
this was to allow for the bulge and hem- 
ming. The extra width is divided be- 
tween the pockets, so that as each is 
filled the bulge is uniform. The pockets 
are, respectively, 8 by 10 inches and 6 
by 10 inches. 

As to the packing of this wallet, much 
depends upon the nature of the personal 
outfit. Probably if my own outfit was 
different I would modify the dimensions 
of the wallet. But the following is a 
list of the articles I usually carry in the 

In the 10 x 20-inch space: 
2 Gingham shirts 
1 Towel and cake of soap 
1 Suit woolen underwear 
Razor strop 



In the 8 x 10-inch pocket: 
2 Pairs socks 
2 Colored handkerchiefs 
1 Small writing tablet, post-cards, 

stamped envelopes 
1 Old style thin bill wallet, with a few 

fish hooks, hank of gut, silk fish line 
A patch or two of khaki, etc. 

In the middle pocket, 6x10 inches: 
Razor in case 

Shaving brush in metal tube 
Tooth brush wrapped in linen 
Tooth soap in ointment box 
3-inch round mirror with metal cover 
Metal comb 
Hypodermic case 
Carborundum hone, 4xlxj4 inches. 

In outer pocket, 6x10 inches: 

Housewife with needles, buttons, safety- 
pins, thread, etc. 
6-vial P. D. medical case 
Pocket surgical case 
Clinical thermometer in metal tube 

Packed in this way the wallet is not 
strained. I have often carried far more 
than the above list, but prefer not to do 
so, as the wallet becomes too bulky: it 
measures, when packed according to the 
list, about 20 by 11 by 4 inches. 

This is the handiest thing I have ever 
carried on the trail. Slipped between 
the blankets, one hardly knows it is 
there. The soft khaki duck allows it to 
be used as a pillow; even if not as soft 
as feathers, still, it beats a pair of trou- 
sers all hollow. It contains everything 
necessary for comfort and cleanliness and 


keeps it tidy and in good order. It is 
never in the way and is as handy in 
camp as it is on the trail. 

By folding a blanket to the same 
size as the wallet and packing the lat- 
ter with the necessities for a foot jour- 
ney, it is convenient as a back-pack. It 
is only necessary to add a pair of shoul- 
der straps. Then with a Preston can- 
teen outfit one can subsist for several 
days quite comfortably. 

The wallet, as can be seen from the 
list of contents, takes no account of 

outer clothing, shoes, etc. It was de- 
signed, however, merely to supply daily 
wants as well as to carry a few articles- 
of apparel. For a long trip extra 
clothing, shoes, etc., etc., must be taken 


For a long time the war-bag seemed 
the only feasible way in which to carry 
the main reserve of clothing and I used 
the mail-pouch style, so much carried 
in the West. The objections to this, be- 
sides those of inconvenience, are that 
the tight rolling of clothing does not 
improve their wearing qualities, and 
moreover as the bag begins to be de- 
pleted it gets flabby and the articles 
shift a good deal. A half-filled bag does 
not protect the contents against the bite 
of the lashropes on the pack-saddle. 

Besides it is often desirable, or even 
imperative, to carry semi-fragile arti- 
cles on the trail. The war-bag is use- 
less for this purpose. For a number of 
years I carried a "telescope" made in 
Prescott, Arizona. It was an excellent 
article^ as long as it was full ; but as 
soon as it began to empty, the contents 
shifted too much to be safe. 

The telescope was made of hydrau- 
lic canvas (a very heavy, stiff canvas) 
with no pasteboard ; the necessary stiff- 
ness was obtained by having two thick- 




nesses of canvas and binding corners, 
edges, etc., with leather. I have car- 
ried photographic plates, camera, am- 
munition, etc., in this telescope with 
perfect safety. It is useful when col- 
lecting rather fragile articles, but for 
general use it cannot be recommended. 
While it keeps everything in good 
shape, as long as it is full, it is not flexi- 
ble enough to accommodate itself to 
changing conditions. 

The ''roll" in a modified form is the 
best thing I have found for packing 
extra clothing. It keeps everything clean 
and tidy. It keeps its shape, however 
slim the list of contents may become. 
It is fairly convenient to keep one's 
spare clothing in, while in camp. It is 
expansive, carrying as little or as much 
(up to the limits of its capacity) as is 
desired ; and since the articles are al- 
ways tightly packed, there is no wear 
from abrasion. 

My roll is home-made from a piece 
of twelve-ounce waterproofed canvaj, 
measuring when laid flat 23 by 44 
inches. A piece of balloon silk from an 
old. tent was cut to the same measure- 
ment and sewn to the canvas by two 

seams 14 inches apart. Two flaps were 
thus formed of balloon silk,' each 14 by 
23 inches. Two other pieces of silk, 
16 inches by 20 inches, were sewn 
across each of the long edges of the 
canvas so that they were between the 
two lines of stitches first made. When 
the flaps are extended the whole forms 
a St. George's cross. In the middle of 
each flap is sewn a thong of whang 
leather or a half-inch ring, on one flap 
the thong and on the opposite flap the 
ring. Under thong and ring the bal- 
loon silk is reinforced by sewing on an 
extra piece of silk about one inch square 
to prevent wear. 

In packing, the flaps are opened and 
the clothing, folded so as not to meas- 
ure more than 14 by 23 inches, is laid 
in the center. When the pack is made 
the end flaps are turned over and tight- 
ened by the thong and ring. Then the 
side flaps are tightened. The bundle 
(for a mule pack) will now be about 
23 x 16x8 inches. The canvas ends 
are turned over and fastened by three 
straps and buckles; one in the middle 
and the two others about four inches 
from the ends. A much safer tie, if 



not quite so convenient, is the "bed 
hitch," using a ^-inch cotton rope 
about 2> l / 2 yards long. The turn of 
the rope around the ends closes them 
up and will assist in keeping out water 
or dust. Well tied by a rope, the bun- 
dle will be tight and hard and will 
measure about 23 inches long and about 
seven inches in diameter. It will fit 
nicely into an alforja, which measures 
usually about 24 x 16x8 inches. 

In such a roll, if not packed against 
anything hard, such as a bootheel, a 
bottle can be packed with impunity. 
The protection afforded by the tight- 
ness of the roll, the canvas and balloon- 
silk covering, as well as by the 
alforja, will keep everything safe 
against the tremendous bite of the 
pack ropes. But be sure to compress 
the bundle as much as possible, for bulk 
counts for a great deal in mule-back 

I have packed the following list, 
which was to be a year's reserve supply, 
in the carry-all of the size given: 

1 Pair shoes 

2 Pairs moccasins 

3 Shirts 

2 Pairs underwear 

4 Pairs socks 

3 Towels 
Moth balls 

1 Suit clothes 

1 Pair overalls 

Patching and darning worsted 

Extra medicines 

Flask, first aid 

Writing portfolio 

4 Books 

With such a roll and a wallet I have 
kept in fairly presentable shape for over 
a year in a rough country where it was 
impossible to replace worn-out articles. 
A surprising amount of clothes and 
toilet necessities can be packed in these 
two useful contrivances. 



T r 7QN'T somebody give me some medicine to keep me from dreamin' at night- 

From dreamin' a dream that makes me seem a prisoner shut in tight? 
For sure, I feel the rush of wind as I stand in the open air, 
And I see the green of a world serene, wide, unpeopled, fair. 
I hear the sound of the woods around, and I taste the tang of spring: 
So I breathe down deep, and deeper still, and my pack on my back I sling — 
And then in my hall room bed I awake to the tune of an early van, 
And I ask myself, as I douse my head, "Faith! Is this the life for a man?" 



Coach of Rowing, University of Washington 

What a Man Who Was Not an Oarsman Has Learned About the 
Art of Eight-Oared Racing 

AM not a professional oarsman. 
Neither was I a professional coach 
of rowing before the beginning of 
my experience at the University of 
Washington. What I know about 
rowing has been learned largely as 
a result of observation and study. I be- 
gan with no theories except the common- 
sense belief that a man who knew the 
best methods of training and the funda- 
mental facts of condition could teach 
other men the principles of any sport in 
which condition enters as an important 

Personally I have never had much 
patience with the attitude that regards 
any kind of athletics as requiring mys- 
terious knowledge in order to win suc- 
cess. If a sport is so complicated that 
the average man who applies himself 
to it cannot soon understand its basic 
principles, I think it shows that the pas- 
time is not one suited for general inter- 
est. Of course, after the first require- 
ment — mastery of technique — has been 
satisfied, the rest comes down to the 
ability of the coach to bring out the best 
which is in his material and of keeping 
the men in condition. 

I have been a coach and conditioner 
of men since 1894 and now that Mike 
Murphy is dead, I take off my hat to 
no one in the world in this field of ef- 
fort. It has always been natural with 
me to observe and experiment, arriving 
at my own conclusions in Yankee style. 
One thing that has impressed me is 
that there is never an end to the knowl- 
edge which a rowing coach can acquire. 
I learn something new every day and 
the fact that I know there are many 
more things to learn is one of the prin- 

cipal reasons why my interest in the 
sport never fails to keep up. 

To my mind rowing of the college 
variety is the highest type of sport. 
There is never any question about the 
amateur standing of an oarsman in a 
university boat. The patience required 
and the fact that there is rarely any 
individual glory to distribute, limits the 
candidates for a crew to men with a 
high ideal of athletics. The fact that 
large sums of money are spent upon 
rowing when there are no receipts and 
all the colleges get out of it is a few 
boat races shows that it is sport for 
sport's sake. 

Ever since Dr. A. L. Sharpe, now 
coaching at Cornell, gave me my first 
lesson in the art of pulling a shell, what 
I have seen of the rowing game has made 
me feel that it is the cleanest, manliest 
branch of athletics. It was at Chautau- 
qua Lake, New York, that I met Sharpe 
and he was good enough to inspire me 
with an enthusiasm for rowing and some 
of the knowledge gained from his own 
rowing experience at New Haven, which 
have stood me in good stead since. 

There has been a lot of talk this spring 
about the advisability of reducing the 
distance of the Eastern races from four 
miles to three. A good many critics seem 
to feel that lessening the distance would 
reduce the strain on the men. To my 
mind it makes very little if any differ- 
ence. The proposition comes down to 
two essentials: First, material, and, 
second, faithfulness of the men in carry- 
ing out training instructions. At al- 
most all the colleges I know anything 
about, there are enough strong, hearty 
young men to man the crews. These 




fellows can be taught to row four miles, 
without injuring themselves, just as w T ell 
as three. 

I do not think there is any coach who 
would put a man in a boat who is not 
physically strong enough to stand the 
strain of rowing. And this speaks pretty 
w r ell for the standards of character 
among coaches. For at every university 
there are some people who want the 
coach to drive home a winning crew, 
regardless of everything else. They are 
likely not to care how he wins, pro- 
vided he does win, and they don't care 
how much good he may be doing for 
the physical upbuilding of undergrad- 
uates, if he does not win. 

Training Is the Secret 

Given a fair-sized squad of able- 
bodied 5 7 oung men who can be counted 
upon to train faithfully, and a four-mile 
race can be entered without fear of any 
bad after effects on the individual oars- 
man. I have trained men for six-day 
and six-night bicycle races where one 
man rode all of this time and I have 
trained them for twenty-four-hour races. 
I have trained sprinters for the fifty- and 
one-hundred-yard dashes and for the 
mile and two-mile, as well as for twen- 
ty-five-mile, races. I have seen men run 
until they were all in and drop at the 
finish of a one-hundred-yard dash, just 
as I have seen them drop at the end of 
distance races. 

The distance does not make a bit of 
difference to my way of looking at it — 
provided a man has trained properly and 
is fit for his event. The key to the 
whole educational system is concentra- 
tion and determination. The part which 
athletics has in the larger work is that 
of teaching undergraduates to bring the 
body under the control of the will. 

Keeping men under lock and key is 
not my idea of a good coaching pro- 
gram. If they are impressed with the 
need for building themselves up into 
the best condition possible and made to 
understand that if they aren't willing to 
do so they had best not compete for 
places on teams, they can be relied upon 
to do the square thing. I take it for 
granted that the candidates are turning 

out for rowing because they want to 
and not because they have to. I tell my 
Freshman to spend twenty minutes a 
day in a room all by himself, looking 
himself squarely in the eye. 

"Have I done all I could to raise 
my standard as a man in the past twenty- 
four hours? Have I been fair and 
square with those that I have had deal- 
ings with?" 

These are the questions I tell them 
to ask of themselves and if the answers 
are right all around, I know I have the 
makings of some good crew men. What 
makes a thinking, fighting, and an hon- 
orable man is what he thinks of him- 
self. I don't like conceited undergrad- 
uates, but underneath their skin I like 
them to have good opinions of them- 

One season a couple of years ago, 
two men were fighting it out for a seat 
in the 'Varsity boat. One day I called 
them together and said : 

"Just now the work of you two men 
is a stand-off in the boat, but one has a 
better scholarship standing than the 
other and to me this seems to indicate 
that one has a little more personal pride 
than the other." 

As a matter of fact, the man who 
was not up to scratch in his work was 
a bit the better of the two, as far as 
smoothness in the boat was concerned. 
I thought the incident might cause him 
to pick up in his classes. It didn't. 
When the time came to make a final 
selection of the eight I again called the 
pair in to see me. 

"It's still hard to decide between you 
two. I would just as soon have you 
throw a coin to decide the winner," I 

The man with the poor scholarship 
record was the first to speak. 

"That's all right with me," he said. 

The other man thought for a minute. 
I saw his mouth go tight. Then he 
said : 

"No, sir, that doesn't suit me. One 
of us must be the best man. I want to 
know which and to know why I am not 
the best man." 

Some people would probably have 
thought this fellow conceited, but not 
if they knew what it means for a young- 



ster to put in months and months or 
hard training for a crew. The second 
man was of a quiet type, but after he 
spoke I knew the thing which every 
coach is most anxious to find out — that 
he was the kind who would be pulling 
hardest when his lungs were feeling like 
bursting in that last hard half mile. You 
can guess which man got the place. The 
man who didn't was too easily satisfied. 

When I take stock of my material at 
the beginning of the training season I 
always make my first division into 
squads, not so much on the basis of the 
relative physical condition of the candi- 
dates as for the purpose of getting a 
line on their personal characteristics. If 
I see that a boy has the right sort of stuff 
in him and a fair build I am willing to 
spend a whole lot of time building up 
his strength so that he can pull an oar. 
Rowing is a great developer of men. A 
skinny freshman weighing 130 pounds 
will, if he has the qualities of personal 
character and trains faithfully, develop 
into a husky young athlete within a cou- 
ple of years. That is why character is 
much more important in making out an 
early season prospect for producing a 

Of course, I don't mean that a coach 
can make a varsity eight out of a lot of 
weak material ; but I do mean that, given 
a bunch of good, healthy youngsters 
properly built for rowing, he can de- 
velop pulling power. It has been my ex- 
perience that material which looks most 
promising at the start is apt to be most 
disappointing in the end. Your candi- 
date who comes out for the squad with 
a splendidly developed physique often 
fails to make good. 

Even as regards form — the knack of 
handling an oar in the right way — the 
fellow who in the beginning of the 
training season seems to fall most nat- 
urally into the correct method and who 
has an ideal build for the boat is likely 
to be beaten out by a youngster not so 
well fortified. In fact. I have come to 
the conclusion that as far as rowing is 
concerned natural ability is a poor asset, 
while developed ability is a very good 
asset. It takes patience to make an oars- 
man. And the candidate who has the 
best natural equipment quite generally 

lacks the power of application to enable 
him to gain a complete mastery of tech- 

One of the men who had the possibil- 
A developing himself into as fine an 
oar as ever sat in our boat never made 
good because he couldn't carry his - 
through. In his Freshman year, after 
about four months of work, he broke 
training and quit turning out for prac- 
tice. He started in again in his Sopho- 
more year, but after five months slipped 
and quit again. In his Junior year he 
lasted until two weeks before the race 
and finally just before the close of his 
course he lost his place two days before 
the race. No matter how good an in- 
dividual oarsman may be, it does not pay 
for a coach to give a man of this type 
the chance of going into the race. Even 
though it might increase the speed of the 
boat for one year, it breaks down the dis- 
cipline of the crew. 

Fit the Method to the Man 

In rowing, just as in other forms of 
athletics, it is necessary for the coach to 
make a particular study of each n 
temperament and prescribe accordingly. 
When I used to coach track. I al 
tried to make each man conscious of 
what he was doing. The work of Hold- 
man, the pole-vaulter who went from 
us to Dartmouth in 1909. was not en- 
couraging at the start. He used up 
a lot of energy in his training, but it 
was plain that he wasn't really think 
of what he was doing a large part of 
the time. He simply ran. dug his pole 
in the ground, and went up in the air 
without thinking. After watching him 
for a time. I said: 

'"Holdman, call your name when you 
go over the cross-bar." 

After about a week he got so he could 
grunt as he was going over the bar. 
After about two more weeks he could 
call his name. Finally he got so he 
could talk all the time he was in the air. 
Then he was ready to learn where his 
faults were and how he could remedy 
them. I got him so that he could call 
off every important move as he made it. 
Then he could tell whether it was his 
hip which knocked down the cross-bar 



and figure out a way of pulling his hip 
up higher. As a matter of fact, he 
found that he got it high enough at one 
time but let down too far after he was 
practically over the bar. Because the 
technique of rowing is not so easily ex- 
plained it is harder to show just how 
this idea works out with oarsmen, but its 
application is just as successful. 

When one says that foot races are won 
when a man is off the ground, he sounds 
foolish at the first thought, but we all 
know that it is so, when we stop to think 
of it, for no man can keep both feet on 
the ground and step nine or ten feet. I 
want a man when he leaves me to go out 
in a regatta to know everything about 
the stroke, from the theoretical as well 
as the practical side. Boat races are 
won with the oars out of the water just 
as foot races are won when a man is off 
the ground. 

Little Points Often Overlooked 

An old Australian oarsman whom I 
met in California where the race is 
rowed in salt water, although we prac- 
tise in fresh water, said: 

"Don't you find it harder to pull your 
oars through salt water than through 
fresh water?" 

I told him I did not try to have my 
men pull their oars through the water 
as much as I tried to have them pull the 
boat through the water. 

He looked at me for a while and 
smiled and said, "I see." 

After another discussion with an Eng- 
lish oarsman, I said, "When is the boat 
at its greatest speed?" 

He said, "Just before you put the 
oars into the water." 

"Why not wait a bit and put them 
in when it starts to slow down?" I 

He didn't have anything to say to this. 

I think these incidents will serve to 
show the attitude I have kept toward 
my work as a rowing coach. It has 
been natural for me to ask my own ques- 
tions and think for myself. Because 
most everybody may have accepted some 
theory has not made me accept it unless 
I could see why it was right. Probably 
I have made mistakes in the past on this 

account, and maybe I've worked out 
some ideas on my own hook which will 
be interesting. 

The main outline of the stroke we 
are rowing is like this. Let's take a 
man seated in the shell with back, legs 
and arms straight. His hands are just 
past his knees. This is the finish of a 
stroke and the beginning of a new stroke. 
He starts forward on his slide and at 
the same time starts forward with his 
shoulders. When he is half way up on 
his slide, his elbows should be past his 

He keeps changing the angle of his 
body so that his slide does not stop at 
one time and his shoulders at another, 
but the stop comes at the same time. The 
shoulders are moving at the same speed 
from the time he comes to an erect posi- 
tion until he has dropped his oar into 
the water. His slide has been decreasing 
in speed from the bow end to the stern 
end of the slide. When his hands cross 
his toes, he starts to bevel his blade so 
that we have the man at full reach, his 
weight in the keel of the boat. 

I don't allow my men to twist in the 
waist. They just swing in the hips. I 
rig my boats for a full reach of thirty- 
six inches to stern of the rowlock. That 
is, come straight in from the rowlock to 
the boat and then measure this distance 
along the gunwale of the boat. In order 
that the men may know the requirement, 
during the early season I place a piece 
of red oilcloth at the correct point. This 
is where my men must reach to on every 
stroke. They have to be loose in the hips 
to do it. 

To let an oarsman twist in the waist 
creates friction. Suppose a man has a 
tendency to lower his inboard shoulder 
when he goes out for the reach. Say 
he is on the port side. If he is allowed 
to twist in the waist, he throws his 
weight on the port side of the boat. 
When he starts his pull, he has to swing 
back on the keel. This slows up the 
whole boat. I want my man to just drop 
his blade into the water and start leg 
drive back and arm pull. 

When his legs are straightened out, he 
must take particular pains to get the 
proper lay back. This, in my opinion, 
means that after straightening out his 



arms he will lay back until the beveling 
hand — the outboard hand — is over the 
knee, not past it or beyond it but ex- 
actly over it. I want all the power pos- 
sible to bow of the rowlock — back, legs 
and arms. 

The legs are the strongest muscle we 
have and I cannot for a moment see the 
advantage of the English style of slight- 
ing leg action in order to put greater 
emphasis on the work of arms and back. 
Of course, in order to get the best out 
of the stroke I have described and to 
reap the full benefit of the leg drive, it 
is necessary for the oarsman to have a 
strong back and arms. From the time 
the oarsman starts to pull when out for 
the long reach he must pull with his back 
all the time. Elbows should be at the 
side at the same time the legs are straight- 
ened out. 

One of the features on which I place 
greatest emphasis is to see that my man 
does not lift water with his blade. He 
drops his hand until his blade is half 
out of the water. Then he starts his 
bevel, completing it when his blade is 
clear of the water. If he completes his 
beveling under the water or if he starts 
to pull his hands low into his lap, it 
means putting a brake on speed. 

I have my men keep their heads in line 
all the time when out for the reach — on 
the drive — when the oars are in the 
water and when they are going up on the 
slides for another stroke, heads in line 
all the time. My men must work their 
hands in a straight line, too. After they 
finish taking their blades out of the wa- 
ter they lean back so that when their 
arms are straightened out, their beveling 
hand is over the outboard knee. They 
then swing forward in the hip until their 
hands are past their knees. This puts 
them in position for another stroke. 

To the man who is intimately ac- 
quainted with rowing the foregoing de- 
tailed outline has probably seemed to 
contain much that is obvious. It was 
written for the reader who is not an 
expert. The following list of "Don'ts" 
which are on my list will probably prove 
more interesting to the experienced. 

Don't start forward on the slide be- 
fore the hands are past the knees. 

Don't let the slide stop and your 

shoulders keep going out for the reach. 

Don't let up on the leg drive when 
you begin to increase the power applied 
from back and arms. 

Don't have any back wash to your 
oar* on the catch. 

Don't let anyone see you in a boat with 
a bent arm. 

Every man who has ever rowed has 
other prejudices of a more technical na- 
ture over which they will dispute with 
others who have had similar experience 
but who have arrived at different con- 
clusions. This is one of the principal 
fascinations about the rowing game. 
There is endless opportunity for experi- 
ment, and no one is ever in a position 
to say that his is the last word. For 
the undergraduate with a high ideal of 
sport and the desire to develop himself 
physically for the battle of life, rowing 
offers splendid inducements. The com- 
radeship of the rowing squad is the finest 
kind of association. 

The spirit of rivalry between the row- 
ing colleges is splendid. When we came 
across the continent from Seattle a year 
ago, most of the men had never previ- 
ously been East. Naturally the distance 
was so great that there were only a very 
few people connected with the Univer- 
sity of Washington at Poughkeepsie. 
From the day we arrived, however, we 
were made to feel that we were among 

The one way in which I think rowing 
could be put on a sounder basis in the 
United States is to have more general 
participation. Many more colleges could 
take up the sport. It does not require 
any tremendous outlay and is a most re- 
markable developer of physical efficiency. 
More young men in business ought to 

Single sculling is even more fun than 
sitting in an eight-oared shell, and is 
better adapted to the schedule of a work- 
ing day because, given suitable water lo- 
cated conveniently and a boat, a man can 
get more good exercise in half an hour 
than he can from two or three times the 
time expended on some other sport. And 
if there is any more enticing thrill in out- 
door life than that of a shell sliding 
through the water under your own 
skilled direction I have yet to discover it. 



Illustrated with Photographs 

' I V HREE years ago a team came out of the South, held Yale to 
-*- a tie and scored on Harvard, with Harvard scoring only 
twice. That w T as the first time that many people in the East had 
heard of Vanderbilt University in Nashville, Tennessee. Van- 
derbilt is a product of, and a credit to, the New South. There are 
many institutions below Mason and Dixon's line that exceed her 
in years, but she bows to none in spirit and aggressiveness. Her 
graduates are making high places for themselves wherever they 
land. Therefore it is worth while to inquire into the life of this 
university. And since it is athletics that most fitly show forth the 
spirit and scope of undergraduate life, it is athletics — and par- 
ticularly football — that we shall consider. 

N the football field at 
West Point, not so many 
years ago, a Yale coach 
of the Academy team, 
seeing his plays repeat- 
edly stopped by a black- 
haired youth on the scrubs, called this 
cadet to the side lines and asked him 
where he learned the game. 

''Vanderbilt, suh!" answered the 

The coach reflected a moment, rubbed 
his head, and finally allowed that Van- 
derbilt was a new one to him. 

"Where is it on the map?" he in- 

"Nashville, Tennessee, suh!" said the 
cadet, and then added: "But I was a 
no-account player there, suh; just a 
scrub, like I am here. I'll get there yet 

if " 

"You'll do, son," interrupted the 
coach, with a grim smile; "you'll do. 
Only keep on a-trying." And turning 
to the officers with him he asked : 

"Got any more of these Vanderbilt 
persons loose? Got a few more Ten- 
nessee cast-offs like this boy? Believe 


me, it's stuff like him Uncle Sam wants 
in the Army." 

This cadet later proved as dependable 
a back as ever wore the gold and gray. 
He had strength and speed, but, better 
still, his real value showed "from the 
neck up." He came back to the Point 
to coach after graduation, is now a lieu- 
tenant of cavalry, has served as instruc- 
tor at the Point, of State troops, has 
given valuable service as an observer at 
the Army maneuvers, and at the time of 
this writing is with his regiment in the 
Philippines. He was a plebe at the 
Point when the first reports of Vander- 
bilt University began to filter through 
Eastern and Middle Western colleges 
and universities. 

Even six or eight years prior to that 
Vanderbilt had been making history in 
Dixie by meeting and vanquishing team 
after team from the Southern colleges 
and universities — most of them Vander- 
bilt's seniors in scholarship, athletics, 
tradition, and social standing. Down 
there this reversal of type was a difficult 
thing to comprehend. Here was a com- 
paratively new institution which in ten 



years took the ranking position in South- 
ern athletics, defeated the famous Car- 
lisle Indians, tied the Navy and Yale ; 
and only two seasons ago, after three 
days and three nights aboard trains, 
played the championship Harvard eleven 
a creditably close game in the Stadium at 

The fact of the matter was that the 
South was then just waking up to its 

thing and to answer another. Probably 
no three men within the inner councils 
of the University would agree in their 
explanation. Each would have different 
ideas and each would miss the real point, 
simply because every alumnus down 
there is so full of the thing itself that 
none of them recognize it. Vanderbilt's 
rise in athletics is really due to three 
things: native Tennessee stock, the same 

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new possibilities, and in the field of edu- 
cational possibilities Vanderbilt, in track 
phraseology, had "beaten the pistol." 
Down to last year, since the formation 
of the Southern Athletic Association, in 
1891, in track and field meets Vander- 
bilt had won thirteen. In baseball she 
had won 210 games, tied 5, and lost 89 
in 304 plaved. In football she had won 
130, tied 10, and lost 32 out of 172 
played with some 37 different institu- 
tions. This last record includes the 
Southern championship, won fifteen 
times, and several close and hard games 
played with the larger and more power- 
ful teams of the East and Middle West. 
And so, while fairly successful in the 
other sports, football is the game which 
has put the University on the intercol- 
legiate map and the game we must use 
in analysis. 

To ask how Vanderbilt did it is one 

stuff which settled the State in the days 
of Sevier and Jackson, the stuff which 
gave both armies in the Civil War the 
most aggressive fighters in history; a 
hustling, wide-aw r ake alumni ; and — Dan 
McGugin, coach, faculty member, and 
idol of 1,300 students. 

To begin w T ith, Vanderbilt was blessed 
with a generous endowment and fortu- 
nate in starting things with a live, wide- 
awake faculty. This, in turn, gave the 
University the makings of a proud and 
loyal alumni, and the alumni furnished 
a group of enterprising sons who, riding 
on the first wave of prosperity to the new 
South, with their time and monev, have 
been as active as any prize club of 
"boosters" in the great wide West. 

Dr. William L. Dudley, dean of the 
Medical School, whom they kept at the 
head of their athletic association for so 
many years and who was for so long 

McGugin. Foot- 
ball Coach, Law 
Professor and 
Corporation Law- 
yer as He Is To- 

McGugin in 1902, 
as a Star Member 
of the "Point a 
Minute'* Team of 

Dr. W. L. Dudley, 
President South- 
ern Intercollegiate 
Ath. Ass'n, and 
"Father of South- 
ern Football." 

Wilson Collins, 
Halfback, 1911. 
1912, Baseball 
Pitcher, 1912, now 
Outfielder with 
Boston Nationals. 


president of the Southern Athletic Asso- 
ciation and its representative on the na- 
tional football rules committee, was the 
first friend of athletics in the University. 
He started the athletic spirit, and the 
alumni, backed by the citizens of Nash- 
ville, have ever since been getting Van- 
derbilt pretty nearly everything, from 
brains to machinery, that is required in 
these modern days of educational and 
athletic competition. 

The "boosters" picked up Dan Mc- 
Gugin, and before they found McGugin 
they had used several other competent 
men. This alumni group knew what 
they were looking for, and while it took 
them years to find exactly what they 
wanted, in the end they succeeded. The 
first man who came to coach football 
was Upton, of Pennsvlvania. He stayed 
one year and was followed by Acton, of 
Harvard, who lasted two. Then came 
Crane, of Princeton, for two, and 
Henry, of Chicago, for one. Vander- 
bilt, it will be seen, was looking to the 
East for a solution of her football prob- 


lem, but strangely enough the East did 
not furnish the man she needed. He 
came out of the Middle West. Drake 
University started him, and the Univer- 
sity of Michigan gave him his football 
and furnished him with his degree. 

But the finding of McGugin was only 
an incident in the building. All the time 
the alumni were looking for a football 
coacii they kept their eyes open for prom- 
ising faculty members and for students. 
Students do not just come to these 
younger institutions as they drift to 
Harvard and to Yale. They have to be 
found — "hog tied," as one Tenne^seean 
expressed it, and "lugged in." So Van- 
derbilt men went after their young un- 
dergraduate material. They did not 
look for athletes alone. These men 
knew that there were plenty of stalwart 
boys in the ridge country who combined 
perfect bodies and brains, ambitious to 
obtain an education, and who would 
make proper leaders and teachers for the 
new industrial South. 

They watched the schools, the farms, 



and mountains, and once they found the 
boy of proper type they saw to it that in 
some way he eventually became enrolled 
in Vanderbilt. If the boy didn't have 
the funds to put him through, the Van- 
derbilt alumni saw that some member 
of his family did, or that he got there 
by earning the money himself. 

Rival colleges and universities tell 
many a story on the Vanderbilt "boost- 
ers" and their zeal in hunting perfect 
"types" for students ; how this alumnus 
while driving took a boy from a plow; 
how this man found a giant in the mines 
and that "old grad" picked up a scholar 
in a mountain district school teacher. 
Whether exaggerated or plain truth, 
they do not detract from the reputation 
of the University. 

Vanderbilt gets many of these fine, 
rugged specimens from all parts of Ten- 
nessee, Kentucky, Mississippi, Alabama, 
and Texas. Some turn out to be ath- 
letes and some do not, but the majority 
come through a credit to the University, 
and once they are out they have one idea 

fresh in mind, and that is to do the 
University a good turn for every good 
turn the University has done them. 
That is where Vanderbilt gets its royal 
society of "booster^." 

The confidence of these "boosters," 
the undergraduates, the friends of the 
University and the city of Nashville in 
McGugin and his team is amazing. 
They don't seem to know or care what 
he happens to be up against in material 
or schedule. They know that Vander- 
bilt has a football team that can win and 
they want to get out and see it done. 
Nashville has about 140,000 population 
and it turns out in impressive force ?t 
every game. 

Not long ago the citizens, in apprecia- 
tion of what Vanderbilt and football had 
done for the city, held a mass meeting 
and presented the coach with a hand- 
some memorial. Nashville apparently 
demands football, and the University 
alumni, keenly alive to the advantages 
of such support and the advertising it 
obtains, give the city about as good a 

Tom Brown, Captain 
Basket-ball and Football 
Tackle — Member of a 
Famous Football Family. 

Zach C a r 1 i n, Quarterback, 
1912, Whose Drop Kick Scored 
on Both Harvard and Michi- 

Enoch Brown, 
Football End, 
Baseball Catcher, 
Three Years All- 
Southern Half- 




game as can be found anywhere in the 

These in brief are some of the reasons 
for Vanderbilt's success. It may sound 
commercial to more conservative colleges 
and universities. If it does it is mis- 

Vanderbilt has taken a decided stand 
against professionalism in college sport. 
Like other colleges and universities in 
the East as well as those in the South 
and Middle West who are now working 
for the best in athletics, it has been 
through the purging fires. Along with 
the. rest it has had its house-cleaning, and 
wit . the rest it is now keeping its house 
in order. 

There are no scholarships at Vander- 
bilt and no football players have had a 
so-called scholarship of any kind, and 
athletes do not receive financial induce- 
ments to enter. What help any worthy 
students have received comes through 
family connections, from friends, or 
from their own efforts during vacation 
time and while in college. The honor 
system exists at Vanderbilt and is ap- 
plied to athletics there. 

Coaches w T ill tell you that there has 
never been a serious breach of training 
rules in the last ten years, nor have they 
ever heard in this time of an athlete tak- 
ing liquor during season, using tobacco, 
or in any way breaking the letter or 
spirit of the rules. There seems to be 
an absolutely uncomplaining willingness 
to labor which is surely not surpassed 
anywhere. The students seem to feel 
that they have a sacred record to main- 
tain and there is the most intense seri- 
ousness imaginable. 

Making Their Oivn Material 

Each season there appear on the foot- 
ball field an average of between thirty- 
five and forty men. At least a third of 
these have no football ability whatsoever. 
The coaches are never embarrassed by an 
over-abundance of material. It often 
happens that places are vacant with no 
likely candidates to fill them. The first 
games are close at hand. What do they 
do? McGugin and his .isMstants take 
some unwilling, uncomplaining, good- 
natured youth and proceed to make a 

player out of him, or at least a sufficient- 
ly good enough player to fill the hole. 
In this way they patch up the eleven and 
proceed with their schedule. They say 
that after all the making of a player Is 
not so much a question of natural ability 
as one of personal determination, cour- 
age, and patience. 

The approval of the boy's fellows on 
the field is also a help in "making" the 
player, manifesting itself in the bearing, 
the tone of the voice, confidence of the 
candidate, and in many other little ways 
that are at once apparent. McGugin 
makes the most of all this. He adapts 
his style of offense and defense to meet 
the individual qualities of the men. At 
Vanderbilt the coaches rate the defensive 
ability of the team at about 25 per cent, 
the offensive ability at 30 per cent, and 
spirit at 40 per cent. In all of this there 
is something that throws a light on the 
reason of Vanderbilt's success. 

Because of the comparatively small 
enrollment, Vanderbilt, like all the 
Southern institutions, plays freshmen on 
their varsity teams. Such freshmen, 
however, are required to enter with 
fourteen Carnegie units.* Members of 
the three upper classes must show at 
least twelve Carnegie units acquired 
from the preceding year, and with these 
they are permitted to carry one unsatis- 
factory subject; but if, with their twelve 
units, they have two unsatisfactory sub- 
jects, they become ineligible and remain 
so until their work is made up to the 
satisfaction of the faculty. These eligi- 
bility rules are rigidly enforced by the 

For football material Vanderbilt has 
less than 600 students to draw from, 
probably only 500, and in 1912 the team 
was approximately the age and about the 
equal in weight of the Phillips Andover 
and the Phillips Exeter elevens. Yet it 
played most of its opponents to a stand- 
still and Harvard had its hands full in 
pulling out a nine-to-three victory. This 
emphasizes again the courage and intel- 
ligence of the men of middle Tennessee 
and surrounding sections. 

*Under the rules of the Carnegie Founda- 
tion for the Advancement of Teaching, a 
Carnegie unit means five periods weekly in 
any one subject through the academic year. 


When we study the enrollment records 
of the. University we find that the stu- 
dents from these communities of the 
inland South are almost pure descendants 
o A r the original settlers from England, 
Ireland, and Scotland, and that there has 
since been little mingling with other 
races. They have sprung from the con- 
temporaries of Boone, Simon Kenton, 
Sam Houston, and George Rogers Clark. 
The football teams of Vanderbilt are 
largely made up of Browns, Blakes, 
Craigs, Grahams, Whites, and other 
such well-founded patronymics. "Bob" 
Blake, Dan Blake, and Vaughn Blake, 
brothers, were in turn captains of the 
1906, 1907, and 1908 teams, respect- 
ively, and there have been at times as 
many as five Browns on one team. 

But in referring to native stock which 
goes so far in making up successful ath- 
letic teams at Vanderbilt, it cannot be 
said that this one Tennessee university 
has a monopoly of the fighting spirit of 
the South. Sewanee, the University of 
the South; Auburn, Alabama; Georgia 
"Tech," and the University of Georgia, 
all smaller institutions, draw even to a 
greater degree from this Southern stock, 
the real blood and bone of those who 
built the South, and who at the birth of 

the Confederacy gave all they had to the 
cause they believed to be right. 

Sewanee, whose woodland reservation 
is on a mountain tract, miles from the 
more thickly settled districts, comes down 
to Nashville for the annual game, be- 
cause at Sewanee there isn't the neces- 
sary "gate" to pay expenses. It brings 
a team recruited from about 200 stu- 
dents and gives Vanderbilt its closest 
and hardest battles of the year. Harris 
Cope, the graduate coach of Sewanee 
and the latest new member on the Na- 
tional Rules Committee, has the simon- 
pure Southern material to work with. 
If he didn't, as fine a strategist as he is, 
he could not build what he does year 
after year from the handful of young 
men up there on the mountain. Dona- 
hue at Auburn, a professional, turns out 
some wonderful teams from the material 
he has to work with. 

I mention these particularly, as they 
are removed from the Atlantic seaboard 
and, unlike other and more accessible 
institutions, have not the advantage of 
close touch with the Eastern and Middle 
Atlantic colleges. 

Vanderbilt has been playing football 
for approximately twenty years, and 
while I am not familiar with the rec- 




ords of the men who made the early 
teams, a few instances of players in later 
years show something of the Tennessee 
strain and the virile, thrifty, and intel- 
lectual stock it produces. 

Dr. Lucius Burch, whose last year on 
the gridiron at Dudley Field was 1897, 
was one of the best guards developed in 
the United States during his athletic ca- 
reer. He is to-day one of the prominent 
surgeons of the South and is at the head 
of a private sanitarium in Nashville. 

John Edgerton, whose last year was 
1903, was in speed and size the type 
of man which made the Yale teams 
of the early nineties so powerful. Af- 
ter leaving college he became one of the 
head masters at the Columbia Military 
Academy at Columbia, and is now man- 
ager and part owner of a w T oolen mill 
at Lebanon, Tenn. 

Robert Blake was a member of the 
Vanderbilt teams of 1904, 1905, 1906, 
1907, and a place-kicker, punter, for- 
ward-passer and an end of great ability. 
He won the Rhodes scholarship from 
Tennessee, made a fine record at Ox- 
ford, and is now a practising lawyer in 

Owsley Manier was a full-back on the 
Vanderbilt teams of 1904, 1905 and 
1906 and a great plunging back. A£- 
ter his course at Vanderbilt he went to 
the University of Pennsylvania to study 
medicine and played one year on the 
Pennsylvania eleven, as he was entitled 
to by the eligibility rules. But his ef- 
fectiveness at Pennsylvania was lessened 
by the attempt of the coaches to change 
his style of bucking a line from the low, 
plunging dive to running into it erect, 
knees drawn high and great dependence 
upon his companion backs to "hike" 

Manier was four years at Pennsyl- 
vania and had he been allowed to play 
a year more would undoubtedly have 
been chosen for the Ail-American team. 
Out of a class of 146 he led as No. 1 
for his whole course, and is now prac- 
tising his profession in Nashville and 
giving his spare time to the university as 
assistant football coach. 

Ray Morrison, quarterback on the 
1908,' 1909, 1910 and 1911 teams was 
picked by several critics as All-Amer- 
ican timber during his last year in col- 
lege, and as good a judge of material 




as "Ted" Coy said publicly that any 
back in America would be proud of this 
boy for a running mate. Morrison, at 
this writing, is a member of the faculty 
of Branham & Hughes school in Tennes- 

Hillsman Taylor, tackle on the Van- 
derbilt teams of 1905, 1906 and 1907, 
is prominent in the public life of Tennes- 
see, having held several offices of trust 
and merit and was Speaker of the House 


of Representatives of Tennessee in 1909. 

John Tigert and Innis and Enoch 
Brown, who also passed the Rhodes 
scholarship examinations with high 
marks, were all football figures. Tigert 
has the honor of being the first Rhodes 
scholar from Tennessee. After his course 
at Oxford, where he left a splendid rec- 
cord in scholarship and athletics, he 
returned to Tennessee as an educator 
and became President of Kentucky Wes- 
leyan College. In building up this in- 
stitution he taxed his strength too severe- 
ly and w r as compelled to resign his 
position on account of failing health. He 
now has the chair of philosophy at the 
Kentucky State University. 

Frank Godchaux, a quarterback on 
one of the teams in the late nineties, is 
now President of the Louisiana Rice 
Milling Company, a $10,000,000 cor- 

Nothing could better illustrate the 
spirit which pervades the athletic body at 
this university than the football team 
last season. Autumn saw Vanderbilt 

starting with a light and green team 
built around two veteran line men, 
Morgan and Brown, and McGugin 
playing every known combination with 
this pair of "huskies" to its fullest effi- 
ciency. In the Michigan game Brown 
broke one of the small bones in his 
ankle, and the following week, in the 
Virginia game, Morgan broke his leg 
just above the ankle. This put the team 
in mid-November where it ordinarily 
was at the start of the 
season. Despite the 
handicap, however, it 
showed magnificent 
spirit, practised pa- 
tiently, quietly and with 
a determination that 
found itself by Thanks- 
giving Day giving Se- 
wanee, its old rival, all 
that it could handle, 
and in the end win- 
ning by a score of 63 
to 13. 

Brown, the lines- 
man, who four weeks 
previous had broken his 
ankle, played through- 
out this game w T ith a 
steel brace on his leg, and the next day 
was taken to the pest-house with a bad 
case of smallpox. What this youth suf- 
fered in that Thanksgiving Day game no 
one but himself will ever know. 

So much for the material, the spirit, 
the university and the town. Just a 
word about McGugin. He will talk all 
day and all night of Vanderbilt, his boys, 
the town, and the new South, but when 
the topic is brought around to himself, 
invariably has to go to court, or law 
school, or legislature, or some other place 
where football is tabooed. Nashville 
citizens, when asked who McGugin is 
and where he came from, will "reckon" 
that "Dan" is a native of Tennessee, 
always lived there, and always will. 
There isn't any question about it. Dan 
E. McGugin has been officially adopted 
by Nashville. 

Nevertheless, for accuracy on the rec- 
ord, it may be stated that Dan E. Mc- 
Gugin was born on the edge of the Mid- 
dle West in the hamlet of Tingly, Iowa, 
of Scotch and Irish descent, entered 



Drake University at fifteen; graduated 
from the literary department of that 
school in 1901, and entered the law 
school of the University of Michigan, 
at Ann Arbor, in the fall of that same 
year. He was graduated from Michigan 
in June, 1903. 

McGugin had played football two 
years at Drake, and, under the then exist- 
ing rules, had two years of competition 
remaining when he entered Michigan. 
He played at guard in the seasons of 
1901 and 1902, being a member of 
Yost's famous "point a minute" team, 
and had the distinction in that period 
of never having had time taken out for 
him in a single game. He stripped in 
his Michigan days at about 185 pounds 
and invariably faced men much heavier 
and taller, but, according to his team- 
mates, always succeeded in holding a 
little more than his own throughout each 

"Probably the most predominate trait 
in McGugin's make-up," said a member 
of the Michigan faculty, recently, "is 
his unfailing ability to meet every emerg- 
ency. Throughout his college career 

every summer vacation was spent in see- 
ing the sights, either here or abroad. To 
my absolute knowledge he traversed the 
South and West thoroughly, spent a 
number of months in Alaska, an equal 
period in Mexico, also in Central Amer- 
ica, and during two summer vacations 
roamed Europe, working his passage 
over and back in cattle-boats." 

One of these migrations landed him 
in Nashville, Tennessee, possessed with 
a degree in law and a desire to work. 
To help pay his board and lodging he 
secured the job as coach of the Vander- 
bilt football team, and, thus equipped, 
started in to practise his profession. 
That was ten years ago. To-day, be- 
sides having the reputation of being one 
of the most successful football coaches 
in this country, McGugin is a corpora- 
tion lawyer, a member of the faculty of 
the Law School, has married a Nash- 
ville girl, and is one of the most sub- 
stantial business and professional men of 
his adopted city. 

A graduate of Vanderbilt told the 
writer that one of the most moving ap- 
peals he ever heard made was by Mc- 



both at Drake and Michigan he was 
called upon to meet all expenses through 
his own personal endeavors and efforts. 
Many are the stories told of his ingenuity 
in devising schemes to support himself 
during these seven years. 

"But, in addition to a college career, 
'Mac' had an overwhelming desire to 
see the outside world, and practically 

Gugin in a locker-room just prior to the 
opening of a game with Michigan, when 
he, as a fiery Southerner, urged Van- 
derbilt's men to wipe the field with the 
Northerners, and talked of their revered 
and fighting forebears and the trust, con- 
fidence and pride which the South re- 
posed in them as they battled that day 
for the glory of Old Tennessee. This 



man said there wasn't a dry eye in the 
room as McGugin finished, and every 
player in the team trotted out on the 
gridiron that afternoon ready to die, if 
necessary, for the honor and glory of 
Dixie. And the story isn't injured a bit 
when it is added that the general of the 
opposing forces was Yost, McGugin's 
old instructor and college mate, the man 
who taught him all the football he ever 

other things being equal, this difference 
tells quickly in a football game. 

It is significant, however, that Mc- 
Gugin will take a team which has been 
beaten by Michigan and proceed to de- 
feat another eleven, heavier, older, and 
well coached. Note the showing Van- 
derbilt made against Virginia, the Navy, 
and Yale. The answer is that McGugin 
will not stick to any one style of game. 



knew, and who later had become his 
brother-in-law. It may also be said that 
McGugin hasn't yet succeeded in licking 
Yost, although he has taken teams 
North on more than one occasion which 
came very near doing it. 

Michigan's unbroken string of vic- 
tories over Vanderbilt is due, undoubt- 
edly, to the size and strength of the in- 
dividuals who compose her elevens. 
Both teams play about the same game, 
fast and aggressive. The attack of both 
teams is as versatile as it is rapid in ac- 
tion. The generalship is the same, but 
Vanderbilt's teams average in size less 
than either Andover or Exeter, and, 

He develops an extremely varied defense. 
He is constantly looking for the new 
"stuff." He trains his teams to drive 
their attack hard and fast, running their 
plays in quick succession, and always 
trying to get away with the well-nigh 
impossible, or, at least, the unexpected. 
In the Yale 0-0 game it is said that the 
Vanderbilt team ran about seven and 
eight plays to the minute. Vanderbilt 
did identically the same tiling in the 
Navy 0-0 game, and every one of her 
eleven men played the entire game with- 
out a substitution. 

Much was expected of the team that 
took the long journey to Cambridge, but 



as often happens in football, a series of 
unfortunate accidents just previous to 
the trip changed the whole outlook and 
rendered useless all the preliminary work 
of the autumn in building up the par- 
ticular style of play for that one game. 
By the time the team crawled out of 
the sleepers at Boston, its members were 
a sadly crippled lot, and the fast, open 
game which it had been coached to play 
was not in it. Harvard even had to 
loan Vanderbilt a player to make up her 
eleven men. 

It is said that McGugin, in the few 
hours' practice Vanderbilt was able to 
get in the Stadium, changed his whole 
attack and defense. He early discovered 
the "pockets" and "wind echoes" of the 
upper air currents in the Stadium, and, 
detaching the back field, kept it kicking, 
passing, and catching, in order that these 
men might at least be "wise" to the air. 
Taking the line to one corner of the 
big amphitheatre, he drilled it alone, in 
an absolutely new defense. Vanderbilt 
]ost to Harvard that day, but the game 
was by no means one-sided and the Nash- 
ville students returned to Tennessee sat- 
isfied in their own minds that when in 
good condition they could force the 
Crimson to its best. 

It has been said by a Western coach 
that in fundamentals — tackling, charg- 
ing, blocking, punting, and going down 
under a kick — the East is superior to 
the South and Middle West; that these 
results are due not only to good coach- 
ing, but to the wealth of seasoned ma- 
terial which the East has to draw from. 
Many of these Eastern college athletes 
themselves come from the West, but 
their athletic training has been received 
at Eastern preparatory schools, where 
undoubtedly they get better coaching, 
in the fundamentals of the game, than 
the boys at most Southern and Middle 
Western colleges. The writer agrees 
with this, but he also believes it to be 
equally true in versatility of attack the 

West and South are as good if not bet- 
ter. It would be interesting to see what 
would happen to an average, well-bal- 
anced Princeton team if a man like Mc- 
Gugin were given its generalship in a 
game with either Yale or Harvard at the 
end of the season. 

In the ten years that McGugin has 
been at Vanderbilt he has made a lasting 
impression upon the undergraduates, and 
after graduation when many of these 
men have gone among the preparatory 
schools and colleges of the South to 
teach, they have taken the McGugin 
school with them, and established it in 
the institutions to which they were sent. 
It follows quite naturally that these 
schools later send many of their boys 
to Vanderbilt. 

Those of them who play football 
come, therefore, to McGugin as well 
grounded in the fundamentals as Mc- 
Gugin himself could have taught them. 
This is the much talked of "McGugin 
machine." If it is a machine it is a 
good one, and offers one more reason 
for Vanderbilt's steady march to athletic 

But if Vanderbilt attracts material 
from these preparatory schools of Ten- 
nessee, the University of Georgia, 
Georgia "Tech," and Sewanee each get 
just as many more from other schools in 
the South. These four colleges and uni- 
versities draw more students from 
preparatory schools than any other in- 
stution in the South, save the University 
of Virginia, really a South Atlantic col- 
lege. Vanderbilt probably gets more 
students from preparatory colleges of the 
South than any other institution there. 
However, both football and baseball, in 
the largest of these preparatory schools 
and colleges, while developing virile and 
intelligent players, are both in their in- 
fancy as games, and the strongest team 
from any of them could not play And- 
over, Exeter, Hill School, or Mercers- 
burg, with any hope of winning. 

Read Mr. Case's article in July on 
the University of Washington — the 
next in the series of college articles. 







Illustrated with Photographs 

Practical Points on Position, Grip, and the Other Essentials to 

Good Marksmanship 

KNOW of a number of games in 
which brains count heavily, but I 
do not know of one in which brains 
count for more than they do in 
rifle shooting. Strength, ''nerves," 
eyesight, inherited advantages, it 
really makes little difference in how 
great a degree you possess these desir- 
ables, they neither make nor break your 
rifle shooting. 

If you think that eyesight makes the 
difference, consider Midshipman, now 
Ensign, W. A. Lee, U. S. Navy. With 
eyes so faulty that he had trouble gradu- 
ating from the Academy, he won in one 
year the great National Individual 
match with the rifle and the National 
Pistol match with the revolver, in 
straight, open competition against the 


pick of the country. I saw an optician 
testing his lenses at Camp Perry in 
1913, a pair of powerful lenses, the 
absence of which left the officer out of 
it so far as hitting the target is con- 

The finest offhand shot I've seen per- 
form outside of Dr. Hudson weighs 
about 115 pounds. The finest game shot 
I believe there is in the world weighs 
about 155 pounds. 

The man who holds the world's 
record at 800 yards, with over 100 
straight bulls at nearly a half mile range, 
who holds the high record for the U. S. 
team that shot at the Argentine Re- 
public in 1912, and who won the cham- 
pionship and $1 ,000 cash at that event, 
besides shooting on the U. S. Pan- 

. H THE 

American tear 

he n 

quite neurasthenic, he 
may jur. 

sudden slamming of a door behind him 
— b it 

■ - I 

both. - the deli: -.out 


the offhand 200-yard work, fol- 

indoor i .ran rifle 



ins, the 



■ - 

- ■ ■ - . 


- - - - 


i f 






time of the recoil as would happen were 
the gun fired by an electric charge while 
fixed to a rest. 

Literally, shooting is a case of not 
letting your left hand know what the 
right is doing. The thought flashes 
into my mind with every shot I fire, 
whether at the running deer, with its 
scant two seconds of time to fire, or at 
the 200-yard target. 

The natural and wrong thing to do 
is for the brain to keep that left hand 
constantly informed as to what the 
trigger finger is doing, and the instant 
the trigger finger contracts for the last 
ounce to telegraph to the left arm and 
the muscles of the body, "Hold hard, 
she's going to kick." 

This is a flinch. It is not fear, not 
always even anxiety to get off the shot 
at the right time; it is the natural — 
and fatal — disposition of the body to 

tighten up and meet the re- 
coil and roar. Do you watch 
with lax muscles and unflut- 
tered nerves the preparations 
to fire the noisy cannon close 
to you? Or do you clap 
3'our hands to your ears and 
sit with muscles tensed, 
though unnoticed by you, and 
nerves more or less aquiver, 
waiting for the roar of the 
big gun? When the brain 
knows, and the body knows 
through it, that the last 
ounce pressure of the right 
index finger is going to pro- 
duce a more or less heavy 
blow and a loud roar, both 
of them shocks to the nerv- 
ous system, then you can un- 
derstand that success with a 
powerful rifle is dependent 
upon the mental training as 
much as it is upon the muscu- 
lar one. 

Therefore endeavor assidu- 
ously to divorce all connec- 
tion through the brain, of the 
trigger finger and the left 
arm, and body. Concentrate 
hard — this means concentrate 
— on the trigger finger, keep 
the left or supporting arm 
lax, don't let the muscles of 
the body tense up and prepare to meet 
the fuss that is going to take place. 

I have helped to break in a number 
of new men in rifle shooting, and I am 
certain that ninety per cent of the fail- 
ures among riflemen, up to the state 
where judgment of wind and weather 
conditions count, is the lack of absolute 
divorce of the firing mechanism of the 
trigger finger and brain portion con- 
trolling it from the rest of the muscles 
and the brain guiding them. I watched 
one man fire through two years with 
the military rifle. Score after score 
would run splendidly up to the last 
shot or two, then would come the clean 
miss, curses of the rifle and the ammu- 
nition and the market and the weather 
and all the other causes that have to 
suffer the blame for failure of the bullet 
to meet one's expectations. 

Not until after this man shot through 



a course with the .22 rifle in- 
doors did he realize that oc- 
casionally he quit holding and 
pulled the trigger. The re- 
coil of the big rifle covered 
this up, but the small one un- 
charitably told him the truth. 
He actually quit the firm grip 
of the rifle as the trigger fin- 
ger pulled out the last ounce 
of sear, and his whole body 
actually met the recoil before 
it came. It takes an iron grip 
on oneself to keep the body 
still and steady while the 
trigger finger does something 
that the brain knows full well 
will hurt and jar one. 

With the trained man, re- 
coil is not the disturbing con- 
sideration. Speaking from per- 
sonal experience I have fired a 
powerful elephant rifle, developing fifty- 
six foot pounds recoil energy, against 
sixteen for the army gun, with no more 
tendency to flinch from the terrific blow 
than I would have with my own target 
rifle. But let me have a rifle that has 
a bad pull, one that instead of dropping 
clean from the sear notch, goes "click- 
grate, click-bang" and I will have to 
fight myself to keep from flinching clear 
out of the firing point. This is because 
your control of the body can last for but 
an instant, and you have learned that 
the fuss happens when the sear slips. If 
it slips, but the rifle fails to fire, then 



you've got the materials for a case of 
flinching — after a time has elapsed that 
would have allowed the bullet to clear 
the muzzle. 

This is different again from the con- 
vulsive jerk with which the real flincher 
pulls the trigger. The trigger with the 
bad pull is released perfectly, the "flinch" 
is a sort of involuntary relaxing of the 
nerves that follows the perfect release 
of the trigger. 

The man wanting to make a success 
of rifle shooting must think and think 
hard each time he fires a shot. He must 
concentrate, and must be able to tell 
exactly what he did each 
time he pulled the trigger. 
A trained offhand shot can 
call the hit within four or 
five inches at two hundred 
yards, before it is marked, 
because he has concentrated 
on those sights and the trig- 
ger pull, and he knows ex- 
actly where the sights were 
aligned as the recoil hurled 
the rifle into the air. 

An empty rifle is as good 
as a loaded one almost any 
time, for practice, and for the 
beginner it is a whole lot 
better. Until the trigger 
can be released without that 
front sight moving in the 





ler blades of the tractor add- 
ed to the racket. 

I give you my word that 
the first time I fired the rifle 
I did not know whether or 
not it went off, and I had to 
open the bolt and see the 
fired cartridge before I be- 
lieved it. The noise of the en- 
gine and the blades drowned 
out the noise of the rifle — 
and I could not feel it kick 
me during the half-dozen 
shots I fired. 

I would treat recoil in a 
different way from that usu- 
ally employed. If a person 
is bothered by the noise and 
comeback of the rifle, then 
let him secure a 10-gauge or 
a 12-gauge shotgun, with the 
heaviest shot loads possible, 
then seek an open spot with 
the gun. There let him fire 
twenty-five or fifty shots, 
aiming the gun deliberately 

slightest, it is a waste of time and money and squeezing the trigger as though try- 
to fire cartridges. The es- 
sential muscular training that 

must take place to insure 

steady holding can be ob- 
tained best by a few minutes' 

snapping of the rifle each day, 

the arm unloaded, but the 

mind intent on the practice 

to the exclusion of everything 

else. Better five minutes of 

this — it is enough — to a half 

hour desultory "monkeying/' 
Fear of recoil is a mental, 

not a physical, fault. The 

noise has much to do with it. 

Once upon a time I did some 

experimental firing with a 

Government rifle cut down 

to light-weight sporting form, 

from a flying aeroplane. The 

rifle had considerable punch 

in its light form, about nine- 
teen pounds of energy being 

developed by its backward 

travel. The exhaust of the 

four cylinders of the engine 

was directly in front of mc 

and not four feet away, while 

the roar of the great propel- 






ing to hit a target a long way off. It is 
a good idea to put the front bead on 
some object and try to hold steadily on 
this while firing. 

It is not particularly enjoyable. As 
a matter of fact the recoil of a 12-gauge 
gun with trap loads of 3^ drams of 
powder, and \% ounces of shot is nearly 
double that of the recoil of the U. S. 
army rifle, the New Springfield, and is 
about the same as that of the "fero- 
cious" .405. 

There is no use monkeying with the 
gunshy, or recoil-fearing person. Strin- 
gent measures are the best. The big 
shotgun gives us the necessary severity 
of punch — and yet the average person is 
ashamed to quit, merely because of the 
fact that the trapshot fires two hundred 
shots or more in a day, and does not 
mind it. True, the trapshot fires under 
different conditions, but if the kick is 
there in either case, it is merely a ques- 
tion of mind after all. 

The clumsy, uncouth positions as- 
sumed by the new hands — and some- 
times held on to by the old ones — are 
enough to put the teeth on edge like 
the thoughts of a very sour pickle. 
There is nothing in holding a rifle that 
calls for the human frame to be tied up 
in a hard knot. 

I've watched misguided gentlemen 
holding the left hand far out the barrel, 
until the left arm w r as on a strain and 
could not possibly be steady, and holding 
the right elbow at an elevation about 
even with the crown of the hat. I have 
never found the target easy enough to 
allow me to use any such handicap as 
this sort of pose. 

The best position for all-round shoot- 
ing is with the left arm in the half- 
extended position, left elbow well under 
the rifle, muscles relaxed. The right 
hand should grip the rifle tightly, very 
firmly, and pull the gun hard against 
the shoulder. The importance of a 
close-up pistol grip in holding is hard 
for the average shooter to realize, be- 
cause proper grips are quite rare. The 
right elbow should not be raised any 
higher than enough to make a com- 
fortable cushion for the butt of the 
stock, and the butt should be kept well 
in to the shoulder in the muscle-bed 

nature provided for it when she de- 
signed a man for rifle shooting. Also, 
don't bite on the entirely foolish "rifle 
butt plate," the steel sort with the horns 
on it. It fits nobody, including you, 
makes the recoil more severe, and is 
very slow in pitching the rifle to the 
shoulder for a quick shot. 

For deliberate offhand shooting, 
many adopt a hold closer to the trigger 
guard for the left hand, although it is 
not suitable for all-round work. These 
holds vary thus: 

Holds for Offhand Shooting 

Guard flat in the palm of the left 
hand, fingers extended along the stock 
or the magazine floor plate of a military 
rifle, left elbow clinging to ribs, body 
fairly erect. The same hold of the left 
hand, but legs well apart, and the left 
elbow resting on the point of the hip. 

Or, the rifle supported on the thumb 
and the index and second fingers of the 
left hand, the thumb on the rear curve 
of the trigger guard, the fingers ahead 
of the guard, with the elbow either 
clinging to the ribs, or else on the point 
of the hip. 

With the military rifle the sling is 
used in various ways to supplement this. 

My own preference is for the thumb 
and two-fingers support, elbow clinging 
to the ribs — mine are near enough to 
the surface to guard against any slipping 
across them — the sling pulled out from 
the "parade" or tight position until 
there is slack enough to slip up under 
the arm pit. So held, the sling runs 
from the front swivel to the rear one, 
passing beneath the upper arm as close 
as possible to the arm pit, but not pass- 
ing around the arm at all. The weight 
and pressure of the arm against the 
bight of the sling acts as a heavier rifle 
would do, it holds down the gun hard 
against the fingers and stops the wobbles 
to a considerable extent. 

Needless to say, this is merely to play 
the offhand, slow fire game, to beat the 
target, and it is worth nothing in game 
shooting, or for quick work. Holding 
thus, I find a little rosin a good thing 
under the thumb and fingers to guard 
against possible slipping. 



I hate to confess myself a heretic, but 
I am one and deserve the scorn thereof, 
so far as the effectiveness of offhand 
shooting goes. The average man who 
goes afield cannot hold ten shots into 
the 26-inch four-ring at 200 yards. 
They can, huh? Well then, why don't 
they do it when they get on the target 

Out here in Los Angeles there has 
been a rifle club with quite complete 
equipment, open to the shooter at large 
since 1908. Also I've been secretary 
since that year, and have watched them 
come and go. During the seasons quite 
a number of hunters seek the range, 
either to try some of the prize shoots or 
to sight in a new rifle. 

I've watched them and listened to 
their tales. Also have I tried to jibe up 
said tales with the detestable criss-cross 
black and white marker that would 
creep up out of the pit, signifying a 
"three," and therefore not within the 
26-inch "four" ring. 

Fear of recoil, nervousness, lack of 
acquaintance with trigger pull, and 
lack of muscular training, all of them 
show up far greater in offhand shooting 
than in any position. The average man, 
unless he seeks his game in a country 
that forbids such procedure, is very wise 
to practice the sitting position, and get- 
ting into it in a hurry. Too slow? 
Bosh. Consider the Surprise Fire of 
the National Matches at Camp Perry 
and the lessons thereof. 

There was allowed to the shooter the 
short space of three seconds, and also 
the time it took rapidly to shoot from 
the pit the target that lay in conceal- 
ment. The shooter had to stand, rifle 
in right or left hand by the side, safety 
fully on, perfectly erect in posture, until 
he saw the target move. In the hands 
of ordinary markers it moved like a man 
who has inadvertently dropped a lighted 
match into a keg of black powder. I 
should say a half second would cover 
the rise of the target, until the fateful 
three seconds commenced to tick. 

Now originally designed for prac- 
tice in offhand work, the game had 
been thoroughly beaten by the agile 
riflemen. Probably ninety per cent, of 
the shooters at Perry flopped to the 

prone position on the appearance of the 
target. Maybe seven per cent, kneeled, 
and about three per cent, went to the 
sitting position. All this was done in 
the time of which I tell you, say 3*/2 
seconds all told, starting from the stand- 
ing position, rifle locked and held at 
arm's length in one hand. 

The range was 200 yards, the figure 
counting five was 26 x 22 inches. Yet 
possibles of ten shots were as nothing. 
I own five of them myself, so that's 

Majority Favor the Prone Position 

Now three per cent, or so of the 
shooters at Perry went to the sit, and 
ninety per cent, to the lying position, 
because the target was not obscured, 
the ground was level, and the prone 
position is more steady than any other. 
But, this is not true in the game coun- 
try, nor in any other than level mea- 
dow land or desert or baseball parks or 
rifle ranges. Therefore take the sitting 
position, nearly as steady as the prone, 
usable on uphill or downhill formations, 
and putting the eye and the sights from 
two to two and a half feet above the 
ground. This may be enough, or it 
may not be, it depends upon the nature 
of the country and the vegetation. 

Anyhow, assume it if the conditions 
will allow it, and unless the game is 
actually on the run, don't worry about 
time. For one thing, I've noted time 
and again that an animal watching you 
will gaze at you in puzzled fashion, 
unable to make out what became of the 
tall, slim figure seen but an instant 

Comfort and steadiness in the "sit" 
depends upon your svelte figure. If 
you're fifteen years and seventy-five 
pounds away from the erstwhile svelte 
stage, then the sit will make no hit with 
you. For those able to assume it, the 
steadiest modification of the sit is the 
cross-arm position, the old Gunsling 
Dave favorite of the regular army. It 
is thus: 

Place the arms folded across the 
knees, which must be drawn up close to 
the body, impossible for a heavily-built 
or stiff-jointed or very long "shanked" 



man. Rest the rifle over the left elbow, 
which is lying flat across the outside of 
the left knee. Cross the right wrist 
with the left wrist, some people prefer 
to grip the right sleeve with the left 
hand. The arms lie flat, knees up in- 
side the elbows. 

Objections! position is sensitive to 
slope of ground, cannot be assumed if 
the feet are lower than the spot where 
you sit, slower to assume, does not give 
complete control of the rifle, as it merely 
lies across the left elbow, controlled by 
the right hand alone. 

The true sitting position may be 
either with the soles of the shoes to- 
gether, knees spread apart, or else with 
the feet well apart, elbows snuggled 
into the hollows inside the knees. To 
me, this is the best, being less of a strain 
on the leg muscles. 

The kneel is a very much over-rated 
position. California used an experi- 
mental School of Musketry course for 
her State shoot in 1912, and I was one 
of the unfortunates following it out to 
the last shot in the trials for individual 
championship. One stage of it called 
for ten shots kneeling in one minute, 
including reloading the magazine, the 
position assumed from the stand on the 
appearance of the target. Dutifully 
therefore we fired hundreds and hun- 
dreds of cartridges in this position to 
work out the last detail that might 
count for points. 

We found out this — that almost in- 
variably the shooter .. took so much time 
getting steadied down after he struck 
his knee to the soil that he might as 
well have sat down to it. 

Later on we ran against it at Camp 
Perry in the Pan-American matches of 
1913. We bucked this for one solid 
week, about forty shots a day from the 
kneel alone. Here they allowed steel 
reinforced plates in the shoes and cush- 

ions to slip under the lower leg. Also 
the time was not limited in the slight- 
est. In spite of this, the scores were 
not enough higher in this position than 
they were in the offhand to make the 
difference at all worth while. The 
sling was used, the cushion was used, 
lots of time was used, and the prevail- 
ing winds had much less sweep At the 
kneeling man owing to the construction 
of the shooting house. Yet the offhand 
scores overlapped into those made kneel- 
ing until you could not tell t'other from 

The kneel is an extremely uncomfor- 
table position, not at all a steady one, 
and entirely unworthy of practice. If 
you must use it, then see that the left 
toe points straight toward the mark, 
and that the right toe is about fifteen 
inches to the rear, and two or three 
inches to the left of the left heel, before 
you kneel. The left foot, flat on the 
ground, the right knee pointing at right 
angles to the left foot, and the right 
foot on which you sit, must form points 
of a triangle with the three corners 
separated as widely as possible. 

I am an absolute unbeliever in the 
silly and incompetent exhibition of for- 
ever hunting for something to rest the 
rifle upon when firing at game. Learn 
how to shoot without this nonsense, 
because the rest is usually not handy. 
Also if it is, it so changes the shooting 
of a modern, powerful, thin-barreled 
rifle, in the direction of the sky that a 
moose even can easily be missed for 
this reason alone at three hundred yards. 
The variation in the shooting of the 
gun becomes worse as the rest ap- 
proaches the muzzle, but even though 
said rest be back on the fore-end, the 
rifle will shoot from six to ten inches 
too high at two hundred yards, if it is 
sighted in normally for the grip of the 
hands alone. 

Through baseball the Filipinos are learning the lessons of 
self-control and self-government. How much they have 
learned already is shown in the article by A. Garfield Jones 
—"Teaching the Filipino on the Diamond"— July OUTING 



pHAT was what Kipling called it. And that is what Ameri- 
x cans are beginning to believe as a result of the success of the 
"Big Four" in recent international matches. This year we meet 
England again at Meadowbrook and the interest will undoubt- 
edly be greater than ever before. The theory that polo is a rich 
man's game and an affair of high society is being overthrown. 
There is not a corner of the country so remote that its inhabitants 
will not watch for the results and hope for another American vic- 
tory. Why? What are the qualities of the game that make for 
thrills and enthusiasm, even among those who do not understand 
the finer technique? Mr. Whelan answers his question in the 
article which follows. 

HE final chance which 
polo enthusiasts had to 
see the American and 
British players in action 
before the last set of in- 
ternational matches came 
on a Sunday. It was not the assurance 
of stirring competition which brought out 
the crowd. No formal announcement 
of any contemplated interruption to the 
Sabbath calm of Long Island was made. 
A rumor spread mysteriously that a prac- 
tice match between the rival fours would 
be staged. The prospect was sufficiently 
attractive to draw thousands to Meadow- 
brook from New York City and all parts 
of Long Island. 

Over the green expanse of turf which 
later in the week was to be the scene of 
spirited international combat, they found 
calm prevailing. News circulated that 
the final practice was to be held not at the 
club grounds, but on the private field of 
the Phipps estate. Within a few mo- 
ments an endless stream of vehicles was 
headed along the six miles of road inter- 

When the procession reached the gate- 
way leading to the Phipps principality 
progress ceased. The big barriers were 
tightly closed. High fences and higher 
hedges prevented visual exploration. The 


seneschals at the gate, declaring there 
would be no practice, said the public 
could not be admitted. 

The big motor-cars from the neigh- 
borhood which were first on the scene 
could not retrace their way. The few 
moments spent in parleying had been 
sufficient to permit the rest of the vehicles 
to catch up. Drivers who had made the 
alternate choice where the road forked 
had come around and made it impossible 
for the early arrivals to keep on in their 
original direction. A solid jam of vehi- 
cles scraped axles for a very full mile. 
Some few of the thousands reached the 
gate, showed cards, and were admitted. 
The majority essayed the great American 
game of bluff. The defending force was 
more than equal to the onslaught. In the 
heat of repelling attack, it became evi- 
dent that the dominating force was a 
tall old man with a high voice, white hair 
and an accent which bespoke a youth 
spent in Scotland. 

" 'Tis nae use!" he cried, brandishing 
a long stick at the hundreds who 
were attempting individual conversation 
through the gate. " 'Tis nae use. I 
dinna care who ye be." 

Various individuals, who had claimed 
to be everything from county sheriff to 
head of the Metropolitan police, fell 



back. The recession permitted a man 
who seemed slightly stooped because of 
carrying one arm and shoulder in a sling 
and a well-set-up gentleman wearing a 
panama hat pulled over his eyes to reach 
the vantage point. The first man started 
to walk through. True to his trust and 
regardless of the crippled condition of the 
intruder, the incensed guardian shoved 
him back. Wincing from the shock to 
his shoulder, the new arrival stepped 
back upon the foot of the man behind 

"Let us through here immediately," 
the latter commanded in a voice of sup- 
pressed anger. "I'm August Belmont." 

The old Scot never wavered. With a 
smile which showed most of his teeth 
missing, he said : 

"That's what they all say!" 

So it happened that the banker who has 
done as much toward improving the 
breed of American horses as any man, 
and Foxhall Keene, who had been cap- 
tain of the American defending team 
until his shoulder was broken in a prac- 
tice session, stood helplessly out in the 
dusty roadway with some six thousand 
other enthusiasts, until Payne Whitney, 
a brother of the leader of the Yankee 
four, came along and was recognized and 
admitted by the dour gateman. He ac- 
complished the impossible for Messrs. 
Belmont and Keene and without loss of 
time passed the story on to H. C. Phipps. 
It must have appealed to the humorous 
sensibilities of the latter, for a few mo- 
ments later the barriers were thrown 
open, and with the native Long Island- 
ers in the van, the cars of the multitude 
proceeded to tear up the smooth lawns 
of the estate. 

The old guardian at the gate did not 
prevaricate when he said that there was 
to be no practice match. Several of the 
English and American players mounted 
ponies and spent a quarter of an hour 
hammering balls up and down the green- 
sward. Yet the thousands came away 
rejoicing at having seen a few of the 
international players in action. 

It is always a healthy indication of 
popular interest in any spectacle when 
the man at the gate is so worried that he 
fails to recognize people whose names en- 
title them to treatment different from 

that accorded to the common herd. Rob- 
ert Gilmour, the gatekeeper who refused 
to honor the face of August Belmont, 
would probably have recognized the 
banker under ordinary conditions, but 
the crowd which was seeking admittance 
was vast and so made up of all kinds of 
people that personalities did not count. 
More than half of the besiegers were 
Long Island farmers. 

As a class, farmers, in the vicinity of 
New York at least, are not noted for a 
habit of wasting time on trivialities. 
Their nearness to the metropolis either 
develops a tendency for becoming quickly 
accustomed to innovations or forces them 
to make a living in some other work 
than agriculture. Oddities which would 
make another rural population gape do 
not even make the Long Island farmer 
yawn. Because of this mental attitude it 
cannot be claimed that the undisputed 
interest which they manifest in polo at 
Meadowbrook is due to its being an un- 
usual interruption in their lives. To 
prove the point, contrast their attitude 
toward aviation. 

More Thrills Than in Flying 

When flying was a novelty, the na- 
tive population journeyed to Hempstead 
Plains to witness the phenomenon. The 
time soon came, however, when the Long 
Islander came to look upon the aviator 
as being in a class with crows and other 
enemies of agriculture. Except as a pos- 
sible menace to young corn, no aviator 
other than Monsieur Pegoud of Paris 
can legitimately expect a single admiring 
or astonished glance — on Long Island. 

Polo has its risks and thrills. In many 
respects it is more dangerous than flying. 

The game demands fully as careful 
attention to equipment as does aviation. 
A loose girth-strap or a weak stirrup 
presages disaster as certainly as does a 
faulty propeller. The added danger of 
personal playing contact occurring at 
high speed accentuates the element of 
danger in polo. 

Some months ago, when gathering ma- 
terial on the subject of Army polo, the 
writer sent a note of inquiry to Lieu- 
tenant Eugene V. Armstrong, of the 
Thirteenth United States Cavalry. One 



morning a letter with a Texas postmark 
came back. It was from Armstrong, 
giving details of the start of the Thir- 
teenth's interest in polo while stationed 
in the Philippines. "Due to the great 
encouragement offered by the Command- 
ing General and by that all-around sport 
and thorough gentleman, Governor- 
General Cameron Forbes," were the 
words which he used to outline the 
Thirteenth's adoption of the game. 

Within a few hours, the New York 
newspapers were printing a fifty-line dis- 
patch from El Paso telling of an acci- 
dent which had occurred in a game of 
polo played between two Army teams. 
Armstrong, who bore the brunt of the 
play for the Thirteenth, received the ball 
out of the melee and headed his pony 
down the field toward the goal-posts of 
the Fifteenth. With the ball in position, 
and intent upon his try for a tally, 
Armstrong came into a collision with a 
rival player and was heavily thrown. 
Two days later he died of his injuries in 
the Military Hospital, Fort Bliss. 

Danger rides in the lap of the polo 
player. But the element of risk in any 
game is an attraction which palls upon 
the participant just as the history of pro- 
fessional automobile speed racing has 
shown it will pall upon the spectator. It 
is not the danger of the sport which holds 
men to it. If this were its principal justi- 
fication, it is not likely that the authori- 
ties at Washington would have received 
so quietly the report of the death of a 
brilliant young cavalry officer. 

Undoubtedly the hazards of play add 
a thrill to the interest of player and 
spectator, but it is despite, not because 
of, its dangers that polo is becoming an 
increasingly important factor in the life 
of the service. Polo has received not the 
passive sufferance of Army executives, 
but their positive approval. Answering 
a query similar to that put before Lieu- 
tenant Armstrong just previous to the 
fatality at El Paso, General Leonard 
Wood, then Chief of Staff of the United 
States Army, said: 

"The War Department, fully recog- 
nizing the value of polo in developing 
quick thinking and team work and in 
improving horsemanship, has practically 
made the game an official institution." 

There have been a great many changes 
in the various branches of the Govern- 
ment within the past year. The Demo- 
cratic return to power has been marked 
by a searching investigation into all vari- 
ety of expense initiated during the Re- 
publican administration. The longer a 
party is out of power the more satisfac- 
tion there is in reforming existing ar- 
rangements — especially if it can be al- 
leged successfully that the changes made 
are to eliminate extravagance and bring 
about economy. Polo in the service has 
not escaped without a searching exami- 

A member of Congress from North 
Carolina, who has a record for original 
ideas embodied in proposed legislation, 
distinguished himself a few months ago 
by introducing an amendment to the 
Army Appropriation bill which, if car- 
ried into effect, would have made it im- 
possible to devote any money to defray- 
ing expenses for transporting ponies to 
be used in matches. This amendment 
slipped through the lower house, but was 
finally eliminated. It was opposed by the 
Administration. Writing to an inquir- 
ing Senator, last year, the Secretary of 
War, defending expenditures made to 
promote the game in the Army, said: 

What the Army Thinks 

"The valuable returns, as suggested, 
have vindicated the policy concerned, 
while the expenditures involved have 
been a very small charge in the regular 
transportation fund. There is probably 
no sport which is more useful in de~ 
veloping quick thinking, team work, and 
physical activity than polo." 

Modern . invention has gone far to 
supplant the ancient equipages of war. 
Heavy artillery, machine guns, aero- 
planes, and wireless have changed ma- 
terially the methods and weapons of 
fighting. Yet science has still to find a 
substitute for the horse — and polo de- 
velops exactly the sort of mount needed 
for difficult service. Combining speed, 
grit, endurance, and the ability to do hard 
work for a protracted period on short 
rations, the sturdy pony which can be 
depended upon in the last chukker is the 
horse which comes to the front in actual 



Army service. In the last letter he ever 
wrote on the subject, Lieutenant Arm- 
strong gave convincing evidence of this. 

"In the maneuvers in Kansas last 
year," he said, "about six polo ponies 
were ridden by officers. Without ex- 
ception the ponies proved better cavalry 
horses than the big heavy chargers. In 
my opinion — and it is also the opinion of 
a great many other officers — a good, 
well-bred, weight-carrying polo pony is 
the ideal cavalry horse for our service." 

The mobilization of troops on the 
Mexican border has hindered the prog- 
ress of polo in the Army this year, but 
within the past few months steps have 
been taken which insure the placing of 
the game on a sounder plane in the 
service when normal conditions are re- 
stored. The formation of the Army 
Polo Association has made the game part 
and parcel of the service organization. 
The Assistant Secretary of War and the 
Chief of Staff are officers ex-officio of 
the new body. There is no doubt that 
the controlling influences at Washington 
are sincerely aiming to build up the sport. 
Whether some of the details of the pro- 
gram they have developed are best calcu- 
lated to attain the desired result is an- 
other question. 

The fact that polo of the first order 
has been restricted for the most part in 
this country to a limited number of 
places and the fact that these places are 
during the greater part of the year men- 
tioned more often in the society col- 
umns than on the sporting page have 
combined to conceal the values of the 
sport which Kipling has termed 
"the greatest game" from a large por- 
tion of the American public. The de- 
feat of foreign competition has been due 
to the work of a mere handful of men. 
Some months ago when the plans for the 
preliminary training season at Lakewood 
were announced, a number of Western 
authorities criticized the Polo Associa- 
tion for confining the list of eligibles so 
largely to Eastern players. 

It does seem, at first thought, strange 
that nearly all the best players should 
come from one section ; but at the pres- 
ent time, it is the opinion of all fair- 
minded critics, whose acquaintance with 
the game entitles them to express an 

opinion, that, with a few exceptions, the 
leading players come from a limited num- 
ber of clubs. Some notable polo prog- 
ress has been registered in California 
within the last few years ; but the future 
— not the present state — of the game in 
other sections must be relied upon to 
give it a truly national scope. 

Discussing this subject with the writer 
during the early practice sessions of the 
present Spring, Captain J. M. Water- 
bury shed some light on the outlook for 
an increase in the number of first-class 

"Do I think playing interest in polo is 
spreading? Without a doubt," he said. 
"From various places all over the coun- 
try we hear of good ponies being bred 
and of players keeping in trim right 
through the season. Polo is different 
from tennis or golf in that one man, of 
himself, can not develop into a first-class 
performer. It takes team work to round 
any player into form. A man with every 
natural instinct toward the game may not 
make progress unless he is surrounded 
by enough other promising players to 
make his education progressive. 

Making Polo National 

"If a man has the natural instincts to 
develop into a great tennis player, he 
can, even though pitted against mediocre 
material, lay the foundation for success. 
Polo and team work are synonymous. 
Now that the game is developing interest 
among a number of good men in each sec- 
tion, the percentage of well-schooled can- 
didates should increase. That polo will 
ultimately develop along lines which will 
promote competition for the national title 
among clubs all over the United States 
is my opinion." 

It happens that most of the best- 
known American polo players are men 
whose names are familiar for other rea- 
sons, but that they are far and away the 
ablest players in this country is a state- 
ment which cannot be challenged. Yet 
they would be the first to declare that 
polo does not need fashionable patronage 
to win on its merits as a sport. If long, 
smooth stretches of turf w T ere available 
near every center of population and if 
good mounts could be had for the ask- 



ing, polo might supplant baseball as the 
American national game. . If you don't 
believe it ask the baseball writers, tem- 
porarily released from their daily ordeal, 
who saw the last international matches. 
Some who came with patronizing man- 
ner admitted at the end of the first period 
of play that polo is the game of games. 

Take the succession of unexpected 
emergencies in baseball, the team general- 
ship of American college football, the 
thrills of thoroughbred competition in 
horse racing, the technical perfection of 
golf, the dangers of a cavalry charge, and 
a setting which for brilliance is un- 
equalled in the category of modern sport- 
ing spectacles, and you have a combina- 
tion of the fascinations of international 
polo when played between two teams as 
evenly matched as the fours which repre- 
sented England and America in the en- 
counter of a year ago. 

No variety of competition has served 
to bring out more sharply the difference 
between the American and English tem- 
peraments than the clashes between repre- 
sentatives of the two nations on the polo 
field. American ability to concentrate 
nervous energy into the psychological 
moments kept the trophy on this side of 
the Atlantic a year ago. 

The Spirit That Wins 

There is no game in which the "get 
there" spirit is more important. The 
quartet of army officers who represented 
England in 1913 were better horsemen 
than America's representatives. In the 
initial engagement at least the British 
ponies were on a par of efficiency with 
the American mounts. The verdict of a 
physician examining the eight men before 
they responded to the referee's whistle 
would have favored the foreign combi- 
nation. Yet by playing at high tension 
the American quartet won — won in the 
first five minutes of the contest. 

Recklessly, but with the determination 
of men committed to a prearranged plan, 
the American team, playing a chance- 
taking game from the start, swept the 
challengers down the field before them. 
Contrasted with the more conservative 
style of the English, the tactics of H. P. 
Whitney, Devereux Milburn, and the 

two Waterbury brothers, who comprised 
the American four, seemed free and easy. 
Yet it was not the recklessness of ignor- 
ance nor the carelessness of inefficiency. 
Audacity, nerve, and pace were the 
foundation upon which the American 
scheme of attack was built. 

Like a small troop of cavalry, they 
came thundering down the field. By all 
the time-tried rules of polo, even with 
every allowance made for the increased 
latitude afforded by the elimination of 
the old off-side rule, Milburn, who was 
playing back, should have remained in 
the rear, ready to defend his own goal in 
case of emergency. But he violated tra- 
dition. The assumption of the Ameri- 
can four was that a tally for the United 
States would be registered in the first 
few moments of play. It was. And 
Milburn made the first scores possible. 

"The American plan was to hit the 
ball quickly or miss it altogether," said 
a noted English critic in pointing out the 
importance of the opening attack in de- 
ciding the final outcome of the engage- 
ment. "It was a flyaway game. It took 
to the end of the fourth chukker for our 
men to realize the requirements of this 
style of play." 

It would be a libel on the generalship 
of the Yankee brand of polo to say that 
the last defense of the international 
trophy was successful because the veteran 
Meadowbrook quartet paid no attention 
to defense. They had a defense, daring 
but skillfully planned, even in the first 
few moments of dashing play. It con- 
sisted principally of a swift exchange of 
playing responsibilities. Almost always 
there was one man watching for the 
chance of an unexpected repulse and the 
danger of an English player carrying the 
ball into scoring territory. The problem 
which the English could not solve was 
which American had the responsibility. 
Each member of the defending four was 
capable of interchanging positions tem- 
porarily with any other; but the Ameri- 
can assumption, especially in those first 
deciding seconds of competition, was that 
the English team would have to do the 
defending. "Yankee cheek" was what a 
disgusted member of the staff of foreign 
grooms called it. 

From the time of the ancient Persians, 



who if the evidence in European histori- 
cal museums is trustworthy, broke many 
a mallet-head in practice, polo has never 
been a pastime calculated to soothe the 
nerves of the timid. It is a hard game, 
meant for hardy men and hardy mounts. 
The best evidence of its prospects for de- 
velopment in the future is its history. 
Since it originated as an ancient test for 
skill of horsemen and the handiness of 
ponies, polo has continued to improve 
through the study of its devotees. 

The English, following the national 
habit of putting every sport on a syste- 
matic basis, developed it on symmetrical 
lines when they brought it out of the 
East. And the American, although ac- 
quiring the elementary technique much 
more slowly than his British teachers, 
has in the end come to the front by build- 
ing farther and more daringly. If future 
historians seek for an example of inter- 
national relationship which will serve to 
illustrate clearly the difference between 

the American and foreign temperaments 
in this period, they can search for and 
find nothing more typical than the bril- 
liant, impatient success attained by 
Yankee "get there" methods on the polo 

It remains to be seen whether, having 
blazed the trail, America will be able to 
maintain her leadership for an indefinite 
period. At the present time the Eng- 
lish standard of polo horsemanship is far 
ahead of our own both as regards the 
average and the riding abilities of inter- 
nationalists. The margin which has ac- 
counted for the American victories has 
been one of nerve and brains. How the 
balance rests in the next decade will de- 
pend on whether America can develop 
more players among her younger athletic 
generation or whether England can in- 
spire some of her many crack performers 
to acquire some of the fire and dash 
which the veteran Meadowbrook outfit 
have used so effectively. 



Diagrams by the Author 

ANY sportsman - photog- 
raphers bent upon serious 
work in the new hunting 
have a decided preference 
for plates as compared to 
roll films, and this in spite 
of the manifest convenience of the latter 
in carriage, use and development afield. 
This may be due to the fact that, par- 
ticularly in the larger sizes, the entire 
surface of the plate is sure to be in the 
focal plane, whereas a film may not be 
entirely taut and thus produce an image 
lacking in absolute and uniform sharp- 
ness; moreover, the plate lends itself, 
perhaps, more readily to retouching and 
other after processes. 

This is not intended to be a resume 
Qf the old argument upon the merits 
of "Plates vs. Film," however, but 
rather as a direct solution of the problem 
that the plate-user meets when he wants 
to develop negatives or refill holders 

when he is one hundred and eighty-seven 
miles from the nearest darkroom. Those 
among us who have tried to do the trick 
by the sense of touch while muffled up 
under three layers of blankets on a hot 
August night will admit that it is some 
problem at that! 

The writer has found that a portable 
darkroom somewhat on the order of 
that shown in the illustration will fill 
this need nicely, while because of its 
construction it may also be used to carry 
camera and odds and ends of equipment, 
so that it really adds but little to the 
bulk of the outfit. In general design 
it is simply a light-tight box of suit- 
case form, having a pane of ruby glass 
at the top and another at the front, to- 
gether with a hinged door and arm-holes 
therein through which the photographer 
can conduct his operations; it is easy to 
make and does the work satisfactorily. 

Although such a darkroom might be 



made up from the foregoing brief de- 
scription taken in connection with the 
illustrations, there are a few little points 
which might be overlooked. For ex- 
ample, the interior of the box should be 
painted a dead black, and the rim upon 


which the door closes should have strips 
of felt or of black velvet glued to it in 
order that no light may enter.* Then, 
too, the ruby glasses must be accurately 
fitted and fastened with strips so that 
they are light-tight, while if the handle 
is fitted with snap-hooks at each end it 
may be got entirely out of the way when 

The chief care, however, will be in 
fitting the armlets ; these may be made of 
black sateen or black velvet, and need 
not be as long as shown in the illustra- 
tion. They should be run through the 
openings in the door and either tacked 
or glued to the inner edge, allowing 
plenty of overlap; the free ends should 
be fitted with rubber bands or laces in 
order that they may be made to fit the 
arms tightly. 

In size the box may be made to fit 
your individual needs; if you want it 
only to change plates in, it may be quite 
small, but for developing it must be 
sufficiently large to hold two or three 
trays, with extra room for your plate- 
holders. The material should be one- 
half inch wood of any clear-grained 
sort — whitewood is as good as any ex- 
cept the hard woods, which are not 
easy to work and more expensive to buy. 
It should be thoroughly painted or var- 

nished in order to prevent any warping. 

To use the box, the photographer puts 
in it the materials that he is to employ 
and closes the door, then inserts his 
arms through the sleeves and sees that 
they are pulled well up on his wrists; 
if the box faces the light, whether it be 
the sun or some artificial source, the 
interior will be visible through the glass 
at the top, and all necessary operations 
may be conducted as usual. 

At first glance it might appear as if 
this darkroom violated one of the cardi- 
nal principles of the outdoor man not 

N , 


to have glass of any sort in his equip- 
ment, and that this might make it un- 
suited either for use as a suit-case or for 
carrying empty. But in the first place 
it is not supposed that a man going upon 
a rough-and-ready camping trip would 
burden himself with anything but a roll- 
film camera, anyway, while the camerist 
lugging a plate outfit and in search of 
photographs alone would find that the 
darkroom required but little more care, 
and was but slightly more liable to 
breakage than his plates or his camera. 
At that if the fear existed it might well 
be eliminated by doing without the front 
glass and substituting therefor a small 
ruby lamp carried in the interior of the 
box — the remaining glass would allow of 
watching the work illuminated by the 
lamp, while because of its position it 
would be almost immune from danger of 



What One Ambitious Amateur Has Found Out by a Careful Study 
of His Own Performance 

IKE all the rest of them, 
after reading the article in 
the February issue of this 
magazine, "The Fun of 
Trap-Shooting," by Mr. 
d Cushing, ]'. am forced to 

exclaim, "that reminds me" of the "trials 
and tribulations" of friends, as well as 
my own, in wooing the fickle Goddess 
of Fortune, in this, the greatest of all 

Be it field, stream, marsh, or blind; be 
it "horn and hounds" or the cold gray 
dawn with rifle, fighting your way along 
the tortuous trail or through the great 
forests; be the sport in any form, few 
indeed are its followers who reap greater 
pleasure than the writer. And yet would 
I compare the "sport" of trap-shooting, 
when the game is fair and equal, as be- 
ing the greatest of all games and the 
equal of any sport with rod or gun. Too 
much, in my opinion, could not be said 
in its behalf, for, as every trap-shooter 
knows, first, it proves a man's character 
to be only that which it is, and, secondly, 
it develops the best that lies within the 

The writer believes it possible for any 
well-developed man or woman to climb 
to the 90 per cent class, and this, permit 
me to add, with a medium amount of 
practice. In my second year I passed 
this mark, shooting at approximately one 
thousand targets per year, and I don't 
believe that I have any more ability than 
the average trapshot throughout the 
country. Like Mr. Cushing, I began 
the "game" with a field gun with re- 
sults such as Mr! Cushing has described, 
and therefore I shall not repeat his story, 
for mine in this respect is but a repeti- 

My first suggestion is to examine your 
physical self and by some form of proper 
exercise tone yourself up, for this means 
control of the nervous system, without 
which there can be no hope of success. 
It will also add strength to those slug- 
gish muscles, for we all know that live, 
active muscles give wonderful results in 
every game where quick action and ac- 
curate aim are required. The physical 
condition must and does play an impor- 
tant part in this "game." 

In taking your position for the shot, 
be careful that the body is not strained 
and that the feet are so placed as to sup- 
port the body evenly, allowing the turn- 
ing movement necessary to "follow up" 
either extreme quartering target. Do 
not permit the muscles of the legs and 
body to become rigid, preferring always 
the most graceful movement, as this 
alone indicates ease, and ease will al- 
ways eliminate those jerks or spasmodic 
movements that cost so dearly when the 
score is counted. 

Purely for practice, the writer, in his 
room and at such times as would be 
convenient, would get out his "shooting 
iron" and, assuming as relaxed a position 
as possible for the body, gun firmly but 
not rigidly held, face glued, would point 
at and follow up right and left quarter- 
ing mixed with straight-away imaginary 
blue-rocks, turning or swinging in as 
easy and graceful a movement as possi- 
ble, until all of those "spasmodic jerks," 
born of a stiff or weak muscle, were 
eliminated. And I found that this little 
practice elongated many a "goose egg" 
into the "straight and narrow" line we 
all love to gaze upon at the end of the 

Did you ever go to the score, run 




fifteen, eighteen, or twenty straights, 
then seemingly without cause miss one 
or two of the easiest birds thrown ? But 
why ask this question, for I know you 
have, and been thoroughly disgusted with 
yourself for missing, as I have stated, 
perhaps the easiest target encountered. 
You break your gun, extract the shell, 
and, as if it were the real offender, 
throw it violently to the ground, or, as 
I have seen some of them do, toward the 
spot where the target lay at rest. Then, 
calmly and as accurately as with your 
first shot, you complete the score with 
the remaining targets broken clean. 

Now, really, what excuse did you 
have? This may not have been the one, 
but did it ever occur to you that while 
breaking the first fifteen or more 
straights, during the acts of loading, 
shooting, reloading, and waiting your 
shot, you held both of your arms under 
tension, and that at no time were the 
muscles of either arm relaxed — no blood 
allowed to circulate freely, clearing the 
"telegraphic lines" of the nervous sys- 
tem? Then, with the act of throwing 
away the "offending" shell, you forced 
through the tired and strained muscles 
just the blood necessary, clearing the 
clogged "telegraphic lines" of the nerv- 
ous system, and with unfailing certainty 
you again heard the sweet, lingering 
sound of "dead" — the rasping "lost" for- 
gotten. This may not have happened to 
you in this manner, but it has to me, and 
more than once have I seen it demon- 
strated, especially with the man who has 
not had considerable practice. 

In regard to "anticipating the target," 
I have found the following suggestion 
helpful. Forget that there is a target 
coming; assume position, gun firmly 
held, face glued; glance along the barrel, 
both eyes open, aiming your gun at an 
imaginary spot just a few inches below 
the comb of the trap-house and as near 
as possible at the point where the target 
"breaks" into view, without relaxing 
your hold on the gun in any manner. 
When proper position has been assumed, 
concentrate the vision along the comb of 
the trap-house and about the center of 
where the different targets break ; think 
of following up the target that will ap- 
pear somewhere near the spot at which 

you are looking. This should give you, 
in my opinion, the best of all shots, the 
"follow-up shot," as when it appears your 
aim is behind it. Now, don't take the 
eyes off the target, but follow up 
smoothly, not spasmodically, easy yet 
with speed, and the nervous system will 
make the proper telegraphic call and re- 
spond with the proper pull. 

I believe there is more in the fit of the 
gun than in any one thing in the game, 
and to this most all agree ; yet this brings 
the next question: when do we know 
that our gun fits? I contend that this 
can only be determined by actual experi- 
menting, and to illustrate this I shall 
give an actual experience covering a 
period of more than three years. Begin- 
ning trap-shooting with the field gun, 
shooting at slow-moving, high-angle tar- 
gets — for this is nearly always the kind 
thrown at a new club — I easily climbed 
to the 85 per cent mark. 

Breaking into Fast Cornpany 

A shoot was given some fifty miles 
away, and, being an enthusiast, nothing 
would suffice but that I should make my 
debut. So on the opening morning there 
I was, field gun and all, anxious for the 
fray. It came, and the result was start- 
ling; at least, it was to me. The fast, 
low-flying targets were a revelation, and 
the way the "goose eggs" piled up was, 
I w T ill admit, a bit discouraging. About 
the fourth "string" I had the good for- 
tune to break a spring in my gun, and a 
competitor, ready for the next string and 
standing just a few feet away, seeing my 
trouble, proffered his gun. 

The thought of looking at the gun or 
making an examination as to fit, etc., 
never entered my head at the time, my 
object being to relieve the wait. So, 
loading quickly and yelling pull, I was 
surprised when there was but a cloud of 
dust where my target had been. Smash 
after smash continued for the rest of the 
string, some six or eight birds. This 
same gun was used for the remainder of 
the day and I found out what a straight- 
stock gun really meant. It is needless 
perhaps to say that full measurements of 
this gun were taken and a duplicate in a 
cheap grade was procured. 



Regular practice of approximately fifty 
targets per week settled my score around 
the 88 per cent mark, and seemingly 
nothing I could do would change it in 
the least. My right and left targets 
were well broken, as a rule, while the 
straight-away were many times barely 
splintered. Here is where my experi- 
menting began. Boring a hole in the 
stock of the gun, four ounces of shot 
were placed therein, and a little practice 
with this brought my average up to 91