ZOOLOGICAL SOCIETY BULLETIN 



993 



in its place appears a stately grove of pecans, 

 elms, cedars and oaks of more pretentious 

 growth. Through the openings of the trees, 

 pools of water flash back the rays of the sun. 

 Although the streams are dry in winter, there 

 are places in their wild and rugged course 

 where long, deep holes have been gouged out 

 by the terrific rush of torrents in the rainy 

 season. 



In such basins the water remains the year 

 round. Deep under the cliff that marks the 

 foothills of Cedar Mountain, with the pendu- 

 lous branches of elms arching over, there is a 

 natural reservoir that bids defiance to the cold- 

 est northers that ever blow. The brooding si- 

 lence is unbroken save for the soft pat of our 

 horse's hoofs, or the tremulous note of an owl 

 awakening from his day-time sleep. 



Unconsciously you guide the horse with care, 

 as though it would be sacrilege for a human 

 sound to thrust itself into the peaceful spot. 

 Alas ! Like all things that are too carefully done, 

 a stray oak branch lies directly underneath the 

 horse's hoof. It bends, cracks and echoes through 

 the wood like the report of a pistol. There is an 

 interval of silence, then a roar as though a 

 pent up waterfall had launched itself over a 

 cliff. The air is filled with the sound of flap- 

 ping wings, and the quacks of flying ducks. 

 By tens, and scores, and hundreds the ducks 

 launch themselves into the space above the trees, 

 flying chiefly in squads. Each successive rise 

 sounds like surf beating on an ocean beach, 

 and the sharp vibrations of their wings passing- 

 overhead, as they gain proper momentum for 

 their flight, is like the humming of a giant 

 aeolian harp. 



But after all you have disturbed them only 

 a trifle. They are supremely confident of safe- 

 ty from attack, and therefore lazy. The crack- 

 ing branch is the only gun they ever hear in 

 the Wichita Forest. Now that they have been 

 reminded, they stream away into the oak forest 

 across the valley and fill their crops to over- 

 flowing with tiny sweet acorns that lie on the 

 ground. In two hours they will all return and 

 rest as contentedly on the surface of the pool as 

 before. There are hundreds of these secluded 

 water-holes and all are sought and found, not 

 by a thousand ducks, but by tens of thousands. 

 Every night at sunset, and every morning at 

 sunrise, the skv above throws back the Ion"- 

 streamer-like bands of flying ducks, wend 

 ing their way to the feeding grounds, or back 

 to the sheltering pools. A golden eagle on a 

 cottonwood branch is the only disappointed 

 spectator, and as you clatter through the rocky 



ford he indolently launches himself into the air 

 and spirals aloft to join his mate high above 

 the crags of Cedar Mountain. 



Warden Frank Rush has worked unceasingly 

 to put the surrounding country in touch with the 

 Preserve, by constructing through the Forest 

 roads that radiate to all the outlying towns. 

 Where the roads cross the omnipresent and irre- 

 pressible creeks, substantial bridges of cement 

 have been placed. The construction of these 

 concrete bridges is another example of the as- 

 tonishing versatility of the Warden ; and con- 

 crete work that can endure the radical climatic 

 changes of an Oklahoma winter without crack- 

 ing is exceedingly well done. The bridge across 

 Cache Creek at Forest Headquarters is an am- 

 bitious piece of work, and on its surface there is 

 not a single defect. 



During the past three years, the main road 

 to Cache, the nearest railway station, has been 

 entirely re-constructed, and at nearly all times 

 will support heavy traffic. This is the road 

 over which the bison were hauled to the Range 

 in the Fall of 1907. At this day, such an ef- 

 fort could be carried out with an ease that was 

 absent on that eventful trip. 



Five years ago, in the face of many doubts, 

 and prophecies of evil, Warden Rush accepted 

 the responsibilities of his position in a very 

 serious fashion; and it was well for both the 

 Wichita Bison herd and the National Forest 

 in general that their fortunes have been directed 

 by a highly intelligent and conscientious man. 



The first years of the bison herd were years 

 of anxiety for both Mr. and Mrs. Rush, but 

 with painstaking care the animals were brought 

 through in safety. Now they are practically 

 immune to the fever, and are thoroughly accli- 

 mated. Although a multitude of duties make 

 life at Headquarters both arduous and trying, 

 good management has brought its reward — an 

 abundant prosperity. My winter in the Wichita 

 Forest will always be a pleasant memory, and 

 my only regret is that I cannot describe in a 

 more graphic manner the wonderful work that 

 has there been accomplished. All that has been 

 told has been experienced, and because space 

 has its limitations is the only reason that I have 

 not told all that there is to tell. 



As a home for wild animals, the Wichita 

 National Forest presents great possibilities. 

 Over 4,000 cattle graze in the Preserve each 

 year, finding abundant water and food. The 

 dense oak scrub provides the best of shelter, 

 and there is no reason why the hardier of the 

 North American ruminants should not thrive 

 and prosper there in equally large numbers. 



