FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Oct. 27, igoo. 
Rowland E* Robinson. 
McNeil's Ferry, .Vt., Oct. 19,— Stormbound, with Lake Gham- 
plain rolling five-foot whitecaps between me and the haven where 
I would be, and my old Charon unwilling to risk his ancient 
boat, I sit and write of the man and friend who has just passed 
over to the Elysian Fields from a far more stormy sea. 
Yesterday the body of Rowland E. Robinson was car- 
ried to its long resting place in a little hillside grave- 
yard in Ferrisburgh. In the library of his home, a mile 
away, hundreds of friends and neighbors had come to 
look on that brave face for the last time, and show re- 
spect to the memory of the man, and some, as they turned 
away from the contemplation of the calm, though 
wasted, presence, glanced above at a portrait draped with 
autumn leaves which had long hung on the wall. 
It was the same face, but in the pride of vigorous life. 
It recalled their friend as they had known him a few short 
years before — straight nose, high forehead, kindly eyes, 
the leonine poise, suggestive of reser\'e, force of charac- 
ter and power. The face suggested the sturdy American 
stock, and one is not surprised to learn that in Mr. Robin- 
son's veins the two sterling strains of Virginian and New 
England blood unite. His mother was a daughter of Col. 
Gilpin, of the Fairfax Militia, who served on Washing- 
ton's staff, and his father a rock ribbed New England 
anti-slavery advocate, who not only wrote and spoke 
forcefully, but practiced his principles to the extent of 
making his home a depot in the underground railroad for 
transporting escaped slaves to Canada. 
All around the library were the usual cultivated flowers, 
but on the coffin there was nothing except that homely 
symbol of the woodsman — a balsam bough. 1 
On one of the library tables lay a copy of Hough's 
"Singing Mouse Stories," and as I turned the pages idly 
over and mused on the dreamer's tales, an open letter 
fell out on which I saw the name of O. O. S., and I 
thought of my first visit to Mr. Robinson when his sense 
of personal loss in the death of the other FoiiE.ST and 
Stream writer was still new. The two men had never 
met, but there was a strong bond of sympathy between 
them. They had corresponded, and O. O. S. on his last 
lonely pilgrimage had sent Mr. Robinson a collection of 
the bcaittiful seaweed of the Pacific coast. 
It has been well said that sympathy and imagination 
are twin sisters. Mr. Robinson's heart went out to all 
men, and if he favored the poor rather than the rich, it 
was because he found the poor man the more worthy. 
As Emerson says, "What a man puts in his chest he 
takes out of his life." There can be no stronger negative 
framed than Sam Lovel's honest, *T daowt it.'' Here is 
a man who has not dwarfed his soul by swapping simple, 
generous instincts for a money getting habit of mind. Mr. 
Robinson's sympathy has given him insight into such 
characters and won the open sesame to our hearts. 
His kindness was a ruling trait. He always answered 
personally all letters received from those interested in his 
writings, even to the last, and as this correspondence 
was heavy, it must have been a considerable drain upon 
his strength. The day his illness took the fatal turn — 
Oct. 10 — he wrote several letters of this character. 
Mr. Robinson also had a large circle of pen friends, 
particularl}^ among the older contributors to Forest and 
Stream — men whom he had never met, but who, like O. 
O. S., were attracted to him by the strong sympathy which 
his character inspired. 
This combined correspondence, in part at least, might 
have proved irksome to another man, but to Mr. Robin- 
son it was a real and substantial pleasure. His own 
strong sympathy and understanding made him unusually 
ready to appreciate and reciprocate the friendship of those 
who sought him out, and he not only took an interest in 
their lo-\ e of woods and waters, but also in their work- 
a-day associations and their hopes and aims. Suffering 
instead of hardening as it does in some and blotting out 
beauty in life, put a wonderfully delicate edge to his 
appreciation of human and animate nature. Mr. Robin- 
son was a devoted reader of Forest a no Stream. When 
Ins eyesight failed, various members of his family read the 
paper to him, but chiefly it was his daughter, Mollie, who 
plodded week after week through hunting stories that 
must have had a sameness to her feminine ear, omitting 
nothing from cover to cover. He generally reserved the 
paper for S.unday reading, and called it his Sunday's 
sermon. ' 
His first printed article was on New England fox 
hunting, and his last written letter was to the editor of 
his favorite journal. 
_ Mr. Robinson had been Confined to his bed almost con- 
tinuously since May a year ago. He battled against 
sickness long after other men would have succumbed. 
His mental attitude, as illustrated by his continuance in 
writing despite physical ills, no doubt prolonged his life 
for months. Mr. Robinson was at times despondent, as 
became his nature, but there was a boyish joyousness 
about him that shows plainly in his writings. It is fitting 
that his last connected story should have been about a 
boy, and that he gave us a fresh young life in "Sam's 
Boy" at the time when he was laying down his own. 
When his fox hunting article was published in Scrib- 
ner's, Mr. Robinson was happy as a boy with his first 
gun. Then came orders from magazines for articles on 
uncongenial subjects, one of which was a description of 
the Vermont marble quarries. From this grind of hack 
work he turned with keen pleasure to the prescient sug- 
gestion of the editor of Forest and Stream to contribute 
certain sketches of New England life. As a result "Uncle 
Lisha's Shop" was given to the world in 1888. This book 
has become and always- will be' a classic in American 
literature. ■ - ■ 
The circle of those who comprehended Mr. Robinson's 
genius is not so large as it shotild be. He has failed .of the 
great popular success and laudation accredited to in- 
finitely less worth}' men. He could not compreliend how 
clever, shallow writers with one eye cocked on" .the 
■almighty dollar could cater to a false sentimentalism -by 
pretending to- an. occult knowledge of animals and giving 
to the birds and beasts human and unreal characteristics 
idealized with a tawdry gloss. His talents were not to 
be debauched in this way. He refused to work the 
popular "wild animal graft." He went direct to nature 
for his models and gave to all his inventions the .stamp. of 
a reality not to be gainsaid. 
But Mr. Robinson had a select circle of intense'ad- 
Tniters, While traveling T hay? often met such persons. 
and at times they seemed surprised to find that any one 
else could appreciate Robinson as they did. On a train 
last winter I overheard- a commercial traveler dilating on 
"Uncle Lisha's Shop" and the other well-known titles, and ' 
advising with true missionary enthusiasm the man he was 
talking' with to read the stories. He told how he had 
just interested a customer in the books, and how the man 
had got him to buy the whole lot and ship them with his 
last bill of goods, and how delighted his customer had 
been when he came to read them. 
Mr. Putnam, of Boston, another commercial _ man, told 
of an old gentleman at Deighton who at the time of his 
last illness looked forward each week to the issues of 
Forest and Stream containing Robinson's chapter as the 
event of his life, and who had the articles read to him up 
to the very last. Mr. Robinson's humor was always 
kindly, and there was nothing in anything he ever wrote 
that his friends would, wish unwritten. 
Mr. Robinson's eyes began to fail in 1887, at the time 
he was writing his first book. For six years he fought 
against the slowly conquering malady, and wrote "Danvis 
Folks," "Sam Lovel's Camp" and "Uncle Lisha's Out- 
ing," though meanwhile "groping around in thp fog,'' as 
he himself expressed it. In 1893 he became totally blind. 
Fie accepted his visitation with such cheerfulness that it 
hardly seemed a trial. No one ever became blind more 
gracefully. It seemed rather to give distinction to Mr. 
Robinson than to take away any part of his life. No 
one felt like commiserating him. He did not need or 
expect sympathy for this cause any more than for gray 
hair or other natural evidences of advancing age. 
In fact no one could talk with him and think of him 
as a blind man, His eyes were bright and carried ex- 
pression,, and he watched the speaker and turned from 
one to another in conversation. He advanced to meet 
his guests and visitors and shook hands in a perfectly 
natural way, and he ncA^er had difficulty in talking on 
topics of interest to varying minds. 
\Jp to two years ago he was apparently a very vigorous 
and healthy man — one with whom time had dealt lightly — 
a fine example of slowly ripening manhood. Then came 
his illness, but though stricken down, he was the same 
kindly gentleman as ever, never referring to his ailments 
as a subject worthy of thought, but taking a keen in- 
terest in men and affairs. 
Day after day he lay on his hack writing on a slotted 
tablet with his own hand his inimitable descriptions of 
life or scenery, or corresponding with his friends. He 
had that which misfortune could not take away, and 
like Bunyan in prison, his heart was elsewhere, and he 
saw with surer perception than those face to face with 
the realities he described. 
His mind was clear to the end. The last day of his 
life he lay with a fixed expression and eyes very bright 
looking upward. His loving wife could not believe that 
the eyes were still sightless, and asked: 
"Does thee see light, Rowland?" 
"No," he answered, in his slow tentative way. 
"What does thee see?" 
To which he answered nothing. But the silence was 
more eloquent than words. J. B. BtiRNHAM. 
Mather, Ogden and Robinson. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
When Major Mather "fell on -sleep" and the members 
of the Forest and 'Stream circle mourned the loss of the 
good and great man, I felt -a strong desire to add my 
mite to the many beautiful tributes paid to his memory, 
but refrained from doing so, fearing that I, who knew 
him not personally, might take the space of some of those 
who had been permitted to c'all him friend. 
But now that the circle has again been invaded and 
two of tlie brightest stars in the galaxy been removed, and 
one of them our Nestor, I no longer hesitate, but feel that 
the least in the sorrowing and personally bereaved mem- 
bers of the Forest and Stream family may come with 
his modest but sincere tribute. . ■ ■ . 
How many times in sadness since the death of Major 
Mather has my mind reverted to a visit to the genial 
editor, of Forest and Stream shortly before the Major 
left for the scene of his last labors in the Northwest. 
How, as we talked of this one and that one whose work 
had given great pleasure, we at last discussed . the in- 
comparable Mather, and when I spoke of the strong de- 
sire, long cherished, to meet and know him, and was 
assured that he would be in the office in a very short 
time and I might do so, and yet allowed a business en- 
gagement to hurry me away from this great privilege 
which was never again to offer, it is small wonder that 
my regret is deep and lasting. 
The tender and touching tribute paid the memory of 
the two just gone, in the current number of Forest and 
Stream, leaves but little to add,' save only the conven- 
tional "We, too, knew and loved them," and yet we would 
bring our cypress wreath. 
My modest library holds few volumes that I value more 
than the simple annals of honest Sam Lovel and kind, 
lovable old' Uncle Lisha. 
When first the knowledge came to me that the eyes 
which had stored in memory's chambers the beautiful 
scenes, 90 faithfully portrayed, >vere darkened and could 
, nearer more see them, it was in reality a personal and 
lasting sorrow. Truly "death loves a shining mark," and 
has found it in the three so recently garnered by the grim 
reaper.. 
Measured by the happiness given others, these have 
. been full, beautiful and noble lives. They will live in 
'many grateftd'"and Itji^ing- he'artsi -t1^^ they have come 
to-k-now-.-vr- ^ • / 
; "'rbe.-Onc far-pff. divine event , , .. . . ' 
■ ' Tq Ayhich the wholecreation rnov,es." ; 
. ... ....... : 'h' ... ^.r - iLV.::. ■ ■■ :. ..^ ^^^S HpPKiKS... 
- ehaH6^-' EiTfeTy, ' d|y'W4GhitS' "^Kaln.V'wh'jle'' ' htfntinfe 'On 
vthe-; GheCok?p.*.'j5tfJp><&^^rA*a>l|^ •-'.we^t -of Pond Greelc 
Statiap, f.quf\4 a .gtm,b3£rel;.oii'.whidi- -hack' 6£ the xear 
; sijSftt ■ was jiiiscril^^i^. '.'"IjKe^entell'J'to Mike Jopes by Kit 
.''Carson. m'i'$i(9" 'On-the'side.; j'ust iihder the sight, was 
"ShalpS"" foilpw^'d'hy' tWentA^-thfee 'file' marks. The bar- 
rel' was '-badly r'tisfed and /slightly bent ifiear the • middle. 
.Near it werie found two skulls and other evidences that 
• the bodies, Qf tyfo men had .bceri left there mai^y years 
ngo, 
In the Ozarks. 
Down in Missouri, ifi the southern part of the State, 
there is a county known as Douglas county. There is 
nothing of unusual interest in its history — at least noth- 
ing that has ever been recorded^ — and the inhabitants 
are unknown to fame. 
If you are fond of the gun, there is plenty of game to 
be had thereabouts in season in the form of wild turkeys, 
quail and partridge, rabbits and squirrels, and occasion- 
ally a deer is shot, but that is getting to be a rare event 
of late years. On the other hand, if you are city bred 
and care nothing at all for out-of-door life or the ex- 
citement of the hunt you would be apt to perish with 
ennui before the year was out, for the monotony of one's 
surroundings down there is killing. 
Once upon a time the fates decreed that I Should en- 
dure existence in that out-of-the-way corner of the globe, 
though for a brief period only, and in ' this they dealt 
kindly with me. For a year or two I received my mail 
at the combination store and post oflfice in the village of 
M., and called the place my home. 
Douglas county was just over the divide — that is,' a 
range of the Ozark j^lotratains — and seemed far re- 
moved and shut off from the rest of the world, as though 
an ocean inteiwened. At the time of which I write 
the natives of the county were refreshingly ignorant of 
most things pertaining to modern civilization and ad- 
vancement, and correspondingly wise with the wisdom 
of the birds of the air and the flowers of the field that 
neither toil nor spin. 
Were you to mention the "higher life" to a Douglas 
county man he would think that you had reference to a 
life on the mountain top. In the rapid march of 
progress which was beginning to make itself felt in the 
neighboring counties Douglas county was a straggler, 
a loiterer by the wayside, and was in no especial hurry to 
catch up with the shouting, struggling procession. Many 
Douglasites had never even "seen the cars," nor were they 
conversant with the wonders of electricity, and yet, 
mirabile dictu, they managed to live somehow and enjoy 
life at that, and when it came their turn to die they had 
the satisfaction of knowing that they would have as 
eulogistic a funeral sermon preached over what was left 
of them as the richest nabob in the land. They earned 
their bread with the sweat of their brow, used strong 
tobacco and drank stronger whisky, went hunting when- 
ever they felt like it, and, generally speaking, were happy 
— as happiness goes in this queer world of ours. 
So much for the Douglas county people as a class. 
During my sojourn in that part of the State I formed 
an acquaintancfe with several of the male inhabitants of 
the county, and also with a mule. In one or two in- 
stances my acquaintanceship with these men ripened 
into a warm friendship, but with the mule.it was quite 
different. I could never reciprocate the interest he dis- 
played, on different occasions, in my personal affairs. 
The ownership of this creature of strange moods, and 
. fancies was vested in an old man by the name of 
Ebenezer Saunders, or just plain Eb. for short, They 
never use a' man's full Christian name down there, save 
on solemn occasions, such as weddings and funerals. 
The mule, being imbued with a righteous desire for 
independence unrecognized by man in his dealings with 
the lower animals, was disposed to dispute Saunders' 
title. Undoubtedly the creature felt a certain degree of 
superiority to the man, and considered his position in 
life humiliating. At any rate, there were moments when 
he "preferred to be alone," consequently Saunders was 
very often muleless. 
My first meeting with the mule was one calculated to 
leave a lasting impression upon me and also over- 
come any desire for closer acquaintance. I was obliged 
to take a long ride down into -Douglas county on a 
matter of business. The large anitiial that bore me on 
my journey was called a horse by the man of whom I 
rented it, but on this point I had my doubts. However, 
I tpok his word for it, as I was not in a position to 
cavil, it being a case of "Hobson's choice." 
As for the shape of this quadruped — well, that must 
be left to the imagination. It was decidedly unique, and 
its long nose inclined to the severe Romanesque. 
Astraddle the broad, hollow back of this strange beast 
I set forth on my journey. It was fifteen miles to my 
destination, and I calculated that I could possibly make 
it in ten or twelve h*ours if my horse (out of courtesy 
I shall thus dignify him) held out at the wild, reckless 
walk he had broken into at the start. I soon discovered 
that he possessed a peculiar knack of stopping and stand- 
ing still a full minute or two before the change in the 
condition of affairs became apparent. He simply rnerged 
from a walk into a statuesque pose, from which it was 
hard to move him. It was a rare accomplishment. 
We had covered about four mii'es . of this exciting 
journey, when, at a place where two roads met, I was 
joined by a fellow traveler, . also, heading for Douglas 
county. Lie was a large, heavy set man, and his mount, 
a small, dun-colored, dejected looking pony, seemed 
greatly overweighted, |I ejipected' td see the poor beast 
shut up like a jack-knife at any mom'ent. 
This new comer ambled along beside me for some 
distance,;maintaing./a profound silence, and at the same 
time surrep'fitiotisly taking stock' of me out of the tail 
'end of his eye.. Seeing that he persisted in his silence, T 
told him' my : destination, and- to save -time my business 
'.also.-.^ - This immediately removed his suspicions,' and 
\iT'::I .had. wondered, at his reticence hefore, I .was now 
amazed at his . volubility. ^ 
."He talked and. talke.d \yith all his tnight, 
' "■ ,He., talked with all liis main; 
Arid when he 'came- uiitp the end, . ' - 
■ Then he- began' a^ain.V ' . ,.■ '- ■ - 
His voice soothed my noble tst6ed,'.and:I-w'a3;i6bIig6d 
■to kick him' often (the horse,, of, .course)., to ,:^eep him 
•from sitting .down in the road and "going t-0. sleep. .,Me 
.displayed a tendencj^ to sit.'. It had'b^en noticeable' for 
some time back oh the .road m 'ail 't)Cca'^iQna\. yielding of 
the hinder leg;?, 
