This may or may not be the only world inhabited by man—and it is not important whether it is the largest or the smallest of the planets, but all agree that it is a most beautiful world. So that, whether we prefer the mountain or plain, our wishes may be met by a journey from anywhere.
Some fifty years ago, when I was a lad of about ten years of age, my father's sister and her husband visited him, and their stay was prolonged through several months. They were from the state of Maine and during the long winter evenings they would tell us of Maine and of its people.
In giving an account of our annual hunting trip of 1903 along Snake Creek, Mo., I hope that the literary readers of Outdoor Life will not be too critical. I may not be able to paint the tints of the fading days as beautiful as they really were; my descriptions of the lakes, mountains and general landscapes may not meet the most sanguine expectations of the lovers of manly sport, and my vocabulary may take a tumble when trying to tell of how good the coffee tasted.
When Lu and I had finished our preparations for a hunt on the San Miguel our grub boxes contained supplies sufficient for four persons for two weeks, and we drove out of the side gate with six hounds in the dog wagon, among which was Old Bluch. Now there was nothing about Old Bluch that would attract special notice.
A tenderfoot to Stirrup Ranch, came from an eastern college: His head was parked with ancient lore and scientific knowledge. He had pity on the cowboys and mourned that they should be So benighted that it seemed to him just imbecility. "Now if there is a thing I know," he said to them one day, “It is to train a fractious horse in a scientific way; You know In all the riding schools we have throughout the East.
When about eighteen years of age, I was overcome by a sickness commonly called “western fever.” It semed to me the East was too slow, too dull, too small or too something, I myself did not know what. But whatever it might be, I packed a small trunk, took leave of my parents and friends and started for the Rocky mountains.
Given: Four men, armed with rifles, four saddle horses, two pack horses and one pack mule, one month’s provisions, a bear trap, a dog, and a howling wilderness swarming with game. Problem: How will the four men enjoy themselves, what will the horses and mule do to pass away their spare time, what will become of the provisions and what will happen to the swarming game?
Born amidst the squalor of a Mexican village lying among the foothills of the Sierra Madre—his father a Temochic Indian, his mother a Mexican of the peon class—there was certainly little prospect of Luis ever being anything but a poor, ignorant peon, just as his ancestors had been for centuries —the hewers of wood and carriers of water for the proud dons who since the days of Cortez have been the mighty lords of the republic, grinding down the lower classes until, under centuries of oppression, they have become reconciled to their fate.
At last I stood on the Elwah trail and looked off to where Mount Olympus reared its hoary head skyward, while below me the forest stretched league on league, until it was swallowed up in the distant clouds of silver. The roar of the turbulent Elwah was in my ears, its foam-crested waters flashing in the sunlight, reflecting a myriad of colors that dazzled the eye.
Above the west hills’ dark and well-cut lines, The sun-god hangs his streamers of deep red. Across the breastwork drawn above the pines, A million glittering warriors bold are led. Foe meets foe—to the bitter death they fight— And crimson flows the blood of warriors gay.
We reproduce herewith a picture of the big elk-horn chair and polar bear rug presented by the citizens of Tacoma, Wash., to President Roosevelt on the occasion of his visit to their city on May 22, 1903. The chair contains six sets of antlers, all from the one elk raised at Pt. Defiance Park, by E. R. Roberts, and individually named “Roosevelt” after the battle of San Juan Hill six years ago.
A glory fills the autumn hills With golden touch and crimson glow; A purple haze spreads o’er the days, And wood-birds linger, loath to go. A languid breeze among the trees Now whispers of the dead; To deck the bier of Summer here; The cone-flower bows its head.
So much is already known about the many song birds that abound in our eastern states that even if I attempted to record anything of interest in regard to them it would prove a useless waste of time. But in turning attention to the heron family we at once become aware of hitherto unsuspected and extremely striking traits of character which are not evident among our most eccentric song birds.
There is less generally known about the habits of that shy and beautiful animal, the sea otter, than any other that is hunted for its fur. When the storms are raging on the ocean the otter will curl up on the tossing waters, as a cat would before the fireplace and calmly sleep, undisturbed by the fury of the tempest.
There is an old axiom which says, “Don’t lock the stable door after the horse has disappeared.” And it is a good axiom, full of truth and logic. It may be applied to many things, but just at this time, when there is such a diversified lot of views expressed by sportsmen on how best to protect our game, it is especially applicable to that subject.
One of the curses of photography has been the existence of several photographic publications that, gaining an influence over embryo photographers by the dissemination of minor technical detail, use their columns to misrepresent the aims, and conditions of the pictorial movement.
The cobbler sits in his leathery den, Old shoes lie strewn on the floor; He pegs on the soles for all classes of men, The rich as well as the poor. He’s a happy man, and he sings all the day. Keeping time as he strikes the shoe. Till you almost hear the dissatisfied say.
J. M. Cain, Vancouver, B. C.—I have a cocker spaniel about a year and a half old. Would you kindly advise me through your valuable paper whether this dog is too old to be trained; if not, what is the best book I can get for training this spaniel? Answer.—Not too old, but you might have succeeded better while the dog was younger.
Editor Outdoor Life—As Mr. Figgins' last letter is still in the form of a challenge, I will have to reply. I believe I remarked that he was behind the times, but at that time I did not think he was one hundred or more years out of date. He now describes a gun of smooth bore—a gun that can not give the bullet a rotary motion.
The pictures herewith reproduced represent a Colorado naturalist with whose knowledge and learning of birds and animals but comparatively few Coloradans are familiar. Yet he has lived among their ranks for thirty-three years, and now conducts a prosperous museum and taxidermist business in Colorado Springs.