THREE-ARCH ROCKS ii 



fisherman with the sea-lions pursuing the salmon 

 into my nets, as the imaginative fishermen say 

 they occasionally do. Instead of an Astoria fish- 

 erman, I am a teacher of literature in Boston on 

 the other side of the world. It is easy at Boston 

 to believe in the value of Astoria sea-lions. It is 

 hard anywhere not to believe in canned salmon. 

 Yet, as sure as the sun shines, and the moon, there 

 are some things utterly without an equivalent in 

 canned salmon. 



Among these things are Three-Arch Rocks and 

 Malheur Lake and Klamath Lake Reservations 

 in Oregon, and the scores of other bird and animal 

 preserves created by Congress all the way from the 

 coast of Maine across the States and overseas to 

 the Hawaiian Islands. They were set aside only 

 yesterday; the sportsman, the pelt-hunter, the 

 plume-hunter, the pot-hunter, and in some in- 

 stances the legitimate fisherman and farmer or- 

 dered off to make room for the beast and the bird. 

 Small wonder if there is some grumbling, some 

 law-breaking, some failure to understand. But 

 that will pass. 



In a recent dispatch from Copenhagen, I 

 read, — 



