WILLIAM WARREN. 



SHOOTING FISH IN KANSAS BACHELOR'S HALL THE 

 BORDER WAR. 



IT is a blessed privilege to be past the meridian of life 

 to-day. What a store we white-headed fellows 

 have of things which a younger generation of men 

 can never attain! In the charmed recesses of remem- 

 brance lie the vast flocks of wild pigeons, and of game to 

 be had in an hour's walk, where now there is naught of 

 life save the abominable imported sparrow. And then 

 there was the grand and glorious Civil War but I must 

 not write of that further than to say to the young men 

 who were born too late to take part in it that I am sorry 

 for them. Still they have the compensations of youth, 

 and if they are fortunate enough to live where there is 

 still some game left, or if they have the means to travel 

 to the far-off places, they will, after they get past the 

 noon of life, have the same feeling of commiseration for 

 the boys who are forty years in the rear of them which 

 I have expressed. 



There are two reasons for writing the above para- 

 graph; one was because I accompanied Warren on my 

 first and only buffalo hunt, and the other was because 

 while taking "a cold bottle and a hot bird" with my old 

 army companion, Baron Berthold Fernow, once of Po- 

 land, but later Major of United States Volunteers and of 

 the Topographical Corps of Sherman's army, last winter, 

 the Major, in response to a question if he was still living 

 in Albany, said: "No, I am now living at 151 West Sixty- 

 first street, in this city, a place where I used to shoot rab- 



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