556 



RECREATION 



dom, if ever, will exert himself to do any 

 real work in the field and game protection. 

 This may be because his small knowledge of 

 outdoor life and of nature, prevents such 

 a man from seeing the necessity of protec- 

 tive laws. It is not always for the lack of 

 sentiment, for many of these individuals are 

 sentimental to a feminine degree and would 

 almost starve before they would kill the 

 chicken which they greedily devour when it 

 is killed by some one else and served to them 

 at the table. 



We of Recreation believe in sentiment. 

 The world is moved by sentiment and would 

 not be a place in which it would be worth 

 one's while to live were it devoid of senti- 

 ment; but we believe in sentiment having a 

 foundation of common sense. Hence, we do 

 not waste our time in grieving over chickens, 

 bullocks and pigeons that are slain for the 

 market, for we know that the more chickens, 

 bullocks and pigeons that are killed for the 

 market, the greater will be the demand for 

 these things, and. the greater incentive to the 

 farmers to rear them, so, paradoxical as the 

 statement may appear, the more you kill of 

 them the more you will have. 



But every wild creature that is killed makes 

 one less wild creature in the universe, for the 

 very evident reason that the greater the de- 

 mand for wild- creatures the less becomes 

 the supply, inasmuch as God Almighty is not 

 breeding these things for the market. And, 

 until such a day arrives when people will 

 domesticate the wild animals, they will need 

 protective laws to save them from exter- 

 mination. However, there is no necessity or 

 good reason for killing the little birds in our 

 city limits, there is no necessity for killing 

 the pretty gray squirrels that venture near 

 our city nouses, and there is no necessity for 

 killing the Molly Cottontail who goes bob- 

 bing across our lawn. In fact, it is against 

 the law in almost every city to use firearms 

 within the corporation limits, and, if we can 

 only educate the people up to see the enor- 

 mity of the crime and the foolishness of 

 slaughtering these creatures, we can make 

 of every city and hamlet a little paradise, a 

 garden of Eden in itself. 



"THE DEEP SEA'S TOLL" 

 The last time I met Mr. Connolly was at a 

 sea night dinner at Hackensack Golf Club. 

 One would not think there would be much of 

 the deep blue sea at Hackensack, N. J. ; but 

 as we seated ourselves around the beautifully 

 decorated table there was Capt. Joshua Slo- 

 cum, apparently as much at home in his 

 dinner togs as he was when he was 

 spreading loose carpet tacks on the deck of 

 his beloved yacht Spray to keep off the bare- 

 footed cannibals while he slept. You remem- 

 ber the Spray? It was 36 feet 9 inches long: 

 but the doughty captain, all alone, sailed in 

 her around the big world. 



Near by sat the handsome soldier, Colonel 

 Dave Brainerd, known the world over as one 

 of the few survivors of the Greeley expedi- 

 tion, and Mr. Albert White Vorse, who was 

 with the first Peary expedition in 1892, was 

 rubbing elbows with the celebrated marine 

 artist, Carlton P. Chapman ; and there was 

 Henry Reuterdahl. Everybody knows Reu- 

 terdahl, and knows his pictures of sea fights, 

 warships and Jack Tars. They are familiar 

 to us all through the pages of the current 

 magazines and have excited universal interest. 



Then there was the scrappy Lieutenant 

 Scott of the United States Navy, who was in 

 the fight at Cuba, and the droll, long-faced 

 Chas. Battell Loomis. It was a great night; 

 but when Mr. Connolly rose to tell us a sea 

 story the rest, for the time, were forgotten. 

 He spoke in a rapid manner, and one could 

 hear the rattling of the blocks, the whipping 

 of the sail and the hoarse shouts of the Glou- 

 cester fishermen all through his talk. 



The book I now have before me, by James 

 B. Connolly, entitled, "The Deep Sea's Toll," 

 brings back that night as I turn its pages. 



It is impregnated from cover to cover with 

 the salt, raw spume of the winter sea ; and 

 the reader finds himself reading the printed 

 words as rapidly as Mr.. Connolly himself 

 strings them off when he is telling a deep-sea 

 yarn at the dinner-table. 



Jimmy Johnson, "Ho, ho, the little lumper !" 

 who went to sea because he had a quarrel 

 wfth his wife, seems like a veritable person 

 whom we must have met somewhere in one 

 of our seaport citjjes. 



And the trim Colleen, with her loose plank- 

 ing held together like a barrel with iron 

 hoops and everything working, while the salt 

 water squirted in between the planks, is so 

 realistic that it appears as if the narrative 

 were an authentic record of some real trip. 



As the author quaintly puts it, ''The Colleen 

 was that loose 'twas immoral." "She was ten 

 feet longer when she stretched herself," said 

 Jerry. 



"She's a bit loose," said the skipper, "but 

 she sails better loose. When she lengthens 

 out like that she's doing her best reaching.'" 



Then "The Truth of the Oliver Cromwell" 

 and the description of Martin and his dory 

 mate John when they were upset in the wild 

 Northern sea is so graphic that, as we read, 

 we can hear Martin's hearty voice crying out 

 to poor John, who is hanging on desperately 

 to one of the little kegs they use as floats, 

 "Hang on for your life, John," or "How is 

 it now with you, Johnny boy?" and we read- 

 ily forgive the loyal Martin when he lies to 

 his dory mate and tells him that their vessel 

 is in sight, for we all know, in our inmost 

 heart, that such lies are heroic in their con- 

 ception and not to be classed in the same cat- 

 egory with those, for instance, of our insur- 

 ance magnates when they tell about the "yel- 

 low dog" fund. Any more than such noble 



