Feb, 28, 1903.1 
Coahoma's Lament. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
Being in a meditative mood to-day, I feel an impulse 
to commit to paper some of my philosophical reflections. 
Whether they shall ever challenge the attention of your 
readers is a possibility that at present must linger in the 
"womb of time." 
I have been thinking of the passing of the forests. In 
the older States of the Union this is a fait accompli, and 
has long since ceased to be a subject for philosophizing, 
where the great majority of the inhabitants have never 
■seen a real forest and have no idea what it is. But in 
itihose regions that are still in a transformation stage from 
■a partial wilderness condition, the rapid strides that the 
transformation process has been making during the past 
tfew years is a subject for painful reflection b}"- those to 
wliom a love of the woods has become a "second (or 
first) nature." 
This state of things in this "neck of the woods" has 
"become painfully evident to the writer. With every suc- 
'ceeding year a change in the stage settings discloses addi- 
tional wide expanses of ugly "deadenings" and "new 
■grounds," inclosed in wire fences, where formerly one 
'CGu'ld Toam unimpeded in the "forest primeval." 
A dozen years ago one could find unbroken forests 
within a dozen miles of this place wide enough and deep 
enoug'li to get lost in if so disposed; and to-day I might 
ilry in vain to lose myself in a circuit of fifty miles or so. 
Even Bob Bobo''s famous bear grounds are being inter- 
sected by railroads and desecrated by timbermen and saw- 
mills. And of all the incongruous mixups that the devil- 
ish ingenuity of the Moloch of commerce has devised to 
grieve the souls of nature lovers and banish the genius of 
the ancient woods, the modern sawmill, with its scattering 
village of ugly and vulgar board shanties, its piles of saw- 
dust, its ox teams and log wagons, its hideous noises 
and its barbarous mutilations of dame Nature's dearest 
children, the trees — all of this impudently squatted down 
in her very lap, is the most devilish and exasperating. 
Very soon Bre'r B'ar will be elbowed out of his ancient 
heritage, and must forever depart hence to join poor Bob 
in the "happy hunting grounds" of the "great beyond." 
It seems in accord with "the eternal fitness of things" 
that they should all depart together. 
To those of us who have spent the greater part of our 
lives in the woods or immediate proximity thereto ; whose 
earliest childhood reminiscences of keen delight are asso- 
ciated with the woods ; who, when yet too young to 
handle a gun, toddled at the heels of father or elder 
brother, to "turn the squirrels" and pick them up in glow- 
ing triumph when they fell out of the treetops and came 
rattling down through the branches with a lound thump 
.on the ground ; who have gone step by step through all 
J the gradations of the long single barrel, the first bird, the 
ifirst squirrel, the first wild duck, etc., to the full maturity 
I of sportsmanship and the modern breechloader — to us 
.v'hose souls are saturated with a love of the woods, their 
jrapid recession beyond the horizon of our lives leaves a 
vVcicuity behind that nothing can fill, a hunger that nothing 
(Can satisfy. 
It was the fortune of this writer during last summer 
to revisit the home of his childhood, after an absence of 
thirty- four years ; and amid all the changes that had 
occurred he found the little patch of woods still remain- 
ing in the corner of a field, and went to the spot where, 
more than fifty years ago, he killed his first bird. Under 
the guidance of an elder brother the long single barrel 
shotgun was laid over a big stump and a little pewit fly- 
catcher fell before the trigger pulled with trembling hand. 
In looldng back through memory's store house, over all 
the more prominent incidents of game killed through a 
somewhat lengthened career as a nimrod, that little "pee- 
wee" towers up above everything else ever killed by the 
same hand, as the largest figure in the picture. But this 
is "by the way." 
When this writer has occasionally visited the East, he 
[has beheld with sensations of pleasure the highly culti- 
vvated farming country, with its well kept fields, trim 
iJooking farm houses, neat barns, and everything tidy and 
\well ordered; also the beautiful city parks, with their 
ibroad smooth driveways and commodious walks, their 
ifountains and flower beds, etc. ; all of this has had a very 
pleasing eflfeet for a while ; but when the novelty wore off 
the all-pervading sense of artificiality has palled upon the 
appetite, and there has been a longing for a touch of 
nature in these pretty scenes, a yearning to get away from 
these fine pictures of man's most finished handiwork, and 
once more plunge into the inmost recesses of a southern 
canebrake, where, as Horace Kephart once felicitously 
remarked, "When a man enters he is alone with his 
Maker," 
It is related of General Grant that once when he was 
sojourning for some weeks in a Chicago hotel, and was 
fed upon all the delicacies that the market afforded, one 
day he strolled into the kitchen and asked the chef if he 
could give him a plain dish of pork and beans ; which 
being supplied with, he sat down at a kitchen table and 
ate with much satisfaction. And so it is with those ac- 
customed to the woods as their daily fare; the fine parks, 
■etc., do well enough for holiday occasions, but let us get 
/back to the woods as soon as the holiday is over. 
But alas and alack! Where shall we find any more 
Nwoods in reach? 
Mr. Hough's account of his tramps through the forests 
tof New Brunswick carries at least the gratifying assur- 
ance that such forests do really still exist. And while 
we may never expect to go there, and if we should do so, 
there is the prospect that we might have to sleep in the 
snow and live on moose tracks, yet the possibility of be- 
ing able to find a forest where one can get lost — "Some 
vast wilderness of boundless contiguity of shade" — 
which is still accessible to the enterprising spirits, carries 
;i certain measure of comfort to the heart of forest lovers 
in its bare contemplation. 
But how long will the forests of New Brunswick last, 
and even those of Labrador, before the devouring march 
of greedy "Industrial Progress?" In England there are 
extensive tracts that are still denominated "forests," 
whereon not a tree is now growing. How long before 
the United States will be thus denuded, and our forests 
become merely a reminiscence? 
.With the strides we are now making in that direction 
the goal -will soon te reached unless a remedy is found. 
With the* slow-moving methods of past generations, 
alid the abundance of leisure incident to redundant popu- 
lations, in the countries of Europe tree planting became 
a custom that is still kept up, accentuated by the prevail- 
ing laws of primogeniture by which the same estates re- 
main in the same families for indefinite generations. 
Likewise the govcriiments, being long admonished by the 
necessity of such action, have done a great deal for the 
preservation of their remaining forests, and the rehabilita- 
tion of their denuded lands with new forest growths. 
We Americans have paid little heed to these lessons so 
dearly learned in the countries of our forefathers. Pos- 
sessing a land so lavishly endowed by nature with all 
good things, we have acted as if nature's storehouses were 
inexhaustible, by inordinate and irrational prodigality in 
the use and abuse of her gifts. America has astonished 
the world by her giant strides in industrial progress. Her 
citizens have developed a degree of energy finding ex:- 
pression in audacious enterprises that has caused the 
older countries to stand aghast and "view with alarm" 
our threatened mastery of the industrial world. AH of 
this flatters our vanity as a nation, and prompts us to a 
disregard of all conservatism as being "old fogy." 
But when we come to look down beneath the surface, 
to search out the underlying principle that is the proxi- 
rnate cause and generator of all this demonstration of 
vigor, Avhat do we find? Do we find the actuating motive 
power something to be proud of, something that carries 
conviction to sober minds of a long continuance of our 
vaunted "prosperity" by well ordered conservation of our 
resources, to be transmitted to our sons unimpaired? 
We find nothing of the land. What we do find as the 
all-impelling motive of our wonderful activities may be 
summed up in the one odious word — "greed." 
If there is one trait that characterizes modem Ameri- 
canism in its industrial aspect, it is that which manifests 
itself in the restless impatience to realize immediate 
profits; to absorb everything in sight before it can be 
appreciated_ by our neighbor; to rush headlong in this 
scramble of getting, regardless of to-morrow, regardless 
of any consideration for others' claims upon nature, re- 
gardless of everything except gratifying this all-pervading, 
all -dominating, insatiable and brutalizing spirit of greed. 
Witness the buffalo that have been swept oft' the face of 
the earth to put a few transitory dollars in a few ti-ansi- 
tory pockets; the wild pigeons that have gone the same 
way, and all other game that is fast going the same road; 
the milliners' shops that have become charnel houses of 
our pretty and innocent birds, while our women heed- 
lessly decorate themselves with their mutilated remains, 
as tokens of an unholy alliance of greed and silly vanity; 
and finally the forests, the remnants of which having 
taxed nature's energies for centuries to build up, are fall- 
ing before the axes of greed in a few decades — axes, by 
the wa}^, that were ground in legislative halls for the most 
part. 
Let some public spirited individuals move for a forest 
reserve to be established somewhere and enlist the sympa- 
thies of some Congressman or legislator with a soul above 
m.ere expediency and an insight into the future needs of 
the country, and straightway there are arrayed against it 
the lumber "interest," the pulp mill "interest," the logging 
"interest," the railroad "interest," and the Lord knows 
what other "interests," all bent on satisfying a present 
appetite of greed. Powerful lobbies are formed; "log 
rolling" is resorted to ; the friendly legislators grow luke- 
warm, and the measure quietly sleeps "in committee," 
v/hile the Moloch of greed is devouring the last remnants 
of our forests, unrestrained by God or man. 
What is it all coming to? Is there "salt" enough left 
to save the nation from this universal efflorescence of 
greed? 
I believe it rests with the women of the lana co stay tlie 
march of destruction. Tliey are the "salt of the earth," 
and it is a truth that amounts to a truism that "The 
hand that rocks the cradle rules the world." 
If the women of the land can be aroused to a sense of 
the appalling evil to be combatted and made to realize that 
it is w^ork for them to do — the men are too busy "grind- 
ing axes" and cutting down trees. The women can do the 
work if they will. But first of all let them heed the 
Scrpitural admonition — "If thy bonnet offend thee (or 
thy neighbor) pluck it off and cast it from thee." 
Coahoma. 
An Indian Chief. 
Browning, Mt., Feb. 14.— Editor Forest and Stream; 
1 have read the biography of the White Calf in a recent 
issue of Forest and Stream, and heartily indorse the 
same. I am grateful to the Forest and Stream for its 
kind words on the departure of my old time Indian 
friend to the land of his belief, where it is to be hoped 
there are no scheming officials to torment him in the 
hereafter. 
It seems but a span of time, now over thirty years 
ago, when I was a young man, that I met the White 
Calf while I was on a buft'alo hunt with the Cut Hands 
hunting party. The White Calf — then a middle aged 
man — ran and killed three cows with bow and arrows 
while I ran and killed five cows — ^of which I gave him 
three — with the old cap and ball six shooter. Since then 
we have always been friends, and through all those long 
jrears we have had much to do with one another in a 
business wa.y, and, to his credit be it said, a cross word 
has never passed between us. 
In later years, when he began to have talks with the 
Indian agents, he became interested along those lines in 
the behalf of all the Indian people, seeking justice in the 
light in which he understood it himself, and always in 
behalf of the -svhite man as well as the red man. He 
always counselled patience, peace, law and order. He 
really was an ideal leader, giving his whole time and 
thought to his people. He -w^as a good judge of human 
nature, and many times have T sought his opinion and 
asked his impressions of the new agent to his people, in 
which he rarely failed to be correct. Time proved to me 
his rare judgment of character. Perhaps there is no 
white man that was as well acquainted with the Wliite 
Calf as I, except H. A. Kennerly. In sorrow or happi- 
ness he always came to see me. Som-ctimes he would 
sit about and smoke all day, saying nothing. I would tell 
my wife to say nothing to him, as he was like a white 
man, thinking. Then he would tell me of his people's 
troubles, or sometimes of his -fears and hopes for the 
far away future; for when the buffalo had gone he could 
see no future for his people. One day he came to me in 
much trouble and begged me to .go to the land of th^ 
Flatheads with him and that we both select there a piece 
of land for a home, saying that with the cold winds of 
this prairie country it was useless to try to make a living 
by farming and stock raising, as he and his boys had 
tried hard to do it and had failed. For a long time after 
this he was not satisfied with me for not going there with 
him. Our talk began as soon as my work was done, and 
it was 2 o'clock that night before it ended, my wife, whet 
was interpreting, having got so sleepy I had to stopi. 
One would have thought the White Calf would have 
been very bitter toward the white people, as I remem- 
ber a good many years ago Baptiste Champine told me 
the story of his brother being killed by the whites in or 
near Fort Benton, and his son, the Crossed Gun, was 
killed at Cut-bank by a white man. 
It never seems to occur to the average Indian agent 
that to do good work he must become a student of In- 
dian human nature. It is needful that an agent under- 
stand the Indian along the lines that the old southern 
w;hitc man understood the negro, and he could handle 
him, much to the mystification of the average northern 
white man. CriAS, Aubrey. 
Dad's Vacation. 
GEORGE BATTEN IN "BATTEN's WEDGE.'" 
Harvard College, Cambridge, Mass., June — Dear 
Dad : — College closes to-morrow. I think that I have 
passed all my exams, and that I shall start from here to- 
morrow night a Harvard Senior. I am going to join 
the house party at the lake. Am looking for a great 
time and a rest, which I feel I so sadly need. 
By the way, won't you kindly add — say fifty — to my 
allowance this month. 
You should take a good, long vacation. Say what you 
will, when I get into business, I do not propose to work 
so hard as you have and do. 
Your affectionate son. 
New York, June — My Dea!r Son : — Home again and 
glad to be here. Say what you will, home is best, after 
all. 
Vacations are needful; as necessary to the busy man 
as food or sleep. They freshen one up and get him close 
to nature. 
The birds sing, the trees sough and whisper to the 
passing breeze. Mother Earth gives out her daily ex- 
halations, views from mountain tops are inspiring, and 
the air, laden with the odor of the pine, makes one feel 
that his breathing capacity is entirely too limited. 
Brooks sparkle and glisten and ramble through 
thickets of rhododendrons or by banks of azaleas. The 
sportive trout lugs and pulls, cuts and dashes hither an4 
yon, whilst the saucy jay seems to be laughing at your 
efforts to get that little fish out of the water, and the cat- 
bird meows and scolds at your intrusion into the 
secluded green depths where he has chosen to make his 
home, or the sunlight 
dances over the lake 
where little waves dance 
and gleam like myriads 
:::of stars. Your fight here 
with a four-pound bass 
starts the perspiration 
from every pore, and 
sends your pulses up 
several beats to the min- 
ute. When at last he is 
actually in the boat, you 
feel as though you had 
really accomplished some- 
thing. 
_ Perhaps on mountain- 
side, through broken and 
twisted forest, giant trees ■ 
hurled to earth by the 
angry winds, with strain- 
ing nerves and tendons, 
and aching muscles and 
joints, climbing over 
rocks, up glens and 
gorges, tempted at times 
to use your rifle for an 
alpenstock, or to throw it 
away and return, sudden- 
ly, as you round the 
shoulder of some peak, 
your guide whispers — 
rather hisses — "There!" 
and there, sure enough, across that apparently uncross- 
able chasm, a little higher up, are the sheep that you 
have toiled so hard to get within sight and range. 
Now, steady, thumping heart; keep out of my throat, 
and give me a chance to breathe. Curse my hand; it 
shakes ! You feel almost faint, but with a supreme 
clutch at your nerves, bracing feet and arms, you slowly 
raise your rifle until the sights are in range. Never be- 
fore did rifle crack so loud and its pealing report go 
echoing over hill and across valley and b-^ck again, until 
