434 
I frequently tossed him -vvonns, grasshoppers or morsels 
of other food, and he learned to do antics for these in- 
ducements, or tips, quite as readily as some of the crea- 
tures higher in the scale of animal intelligence. He did 
not shy after I had established my tipnotic influence over 
him, unless I kept him dancing too long. I found, how- 
ever, that if two or more persons stepped upon the bridge 
the fish promptly vanished to one of his hiding places 
under the banks of the bridge. Whether or not he could 
count is questionable. Two or three objects upon the 
bridge looked different to him than one, and he did not 
reconcile that difference with tlie object recognized by 
him as a tipper. It is my opinion that animals do not 
ceunt. I do not believe they reason by any such 
m.athematical process as men have schooled themselves 
into using. I would rather believe they act upon intelli - 
gence, conveyed by the eye to the impulsive or instinctive 
mystery that prompts or inspires motion. Two or three 
men must look more strange and formidable to such crea- 
tures than one; it is certain that all creatures with ap- 
preciable intelligence distinguish degrees of magnitude 
and form, for this is one of their most essential natural 
attributes for their preservation. Even man would not 
have to count to act upon the impression conveyed by his 
eyes that two, or a number of enemies are more bulky 
and formidable than one. He would fear a regiment 
more than an advance guard. Without other knowledge 
to guide him he would fear a cow more than he would a 
wolf or smaller creature. What is it to count anyhow? 
Men have doubted as to whether two and two were more 
than three, ^ Ransacker. 
Have I Remembered? 
The closing scenes of a Christmas eve at home serve 
to awaken to the broader mind the responsibilities that 
we owe to the position in life in which we find ourselves. 
As principals in these scenes we must become aware in 
reflective moments of duties left undone, as well as those 
done. To the one of broader mind, the sin of over self- 
indulgence need not apply, because he should have that 
something within him that causes him to remember home 
circles that are less blessed in this world's goods than his 
own. 
As applied to many sportsmen, Christmas eve at hom.e 
is an indulgence in the pleasure that he naturally brings 
to others; it is to him the spring on the sunny mountain 
side, where he stops in happy contentment, where he 
drinks to his heart's content from the cup of cheer and 
happiness. 
The Christmas shopping has been done and the pur- 
chases made, a pleasure that was only hampered by the 
perplexity as to what should be bought, not what would 
it cost. A problem of plenty, a pleasant self-indulgence, 
making our little world of happiness full and complete. 
The fall shooting in the north woods and in the moun- 
tains is over. The guns have been cleaned and put aside, 
but not put away; we only wait for the Christmas dinner 
at home; and then a furthering of our pleasures afield in 
the South. 
The last good-night has been said, the small footfalls 
over head have ceased; buried under the down quilts in 
dreaming silence repose those we love, while the happy 
mother bends over them, drinking happiness from their 
warm cheeks. 
The fire in the grate has burned low, as though oM 
and lonesome after so busy an evening; a cold pipe is 
seen on a near-by table, and the master in this house 
stretches and yawns and declares to himself that 'tis time 
to go to bed — when Donald comes in — Donald the hero 
of the field, the pet of the house, Donald, dear old 
Donald — he goes to his master and lays that knowing 
head on his knee and wistfully looks up into that master's 
face. The cold pipe is taken up and filled and lighted, 
while the smoker places his hand on the dog's head and 
says : "Ah, pup, we are alone at last, and now we can 
talk it over. How you carry me back, back to those 
days when the mountain side was carpeted with rustling 
leaves all yellow and red and dying; to the sunny swale 
and the brook where we lunched; to the frosty mornings 
v.hen you shivered between my knees in your_ anxiety to 
bolt from the wagon and hunt before it was time, to our 
return at night, when you were footsore and were glad to 
come to heel ; to the evenings when you lay by the wood- 
box and growled at the bare-footed boys as they clus- 
tered around the cook-stove to warm their little blue 
legs. Ah, pup, those were great days." 
It is Christmas eve, too; on that bleak mountain side 
the cold mantle of winter has fallen there, too. On a 
small plateau at the base of the mountain is a little cot- 
tage which at certain seasons of the year we love to visit. 
It is the home of Henry — Henry our guide, Henry our 
friend. In the north window of the house a pane of 
glass is missing (boys, just real boys, live there) ; and 
in lieu of a pane of glass a piece of old cloth, part of a 
discarded hunting coat stuffed with straw, protrudes. 
Around it the snow has drifted in and melted on the 
bare floor. 
The two lean cows have been milked, the oxen have 
been fed and supper eaten ; the wood-box has been filled, 
and the outer garments of many patches and colors are 
hung on the nails back of the stove. Red mits are un- 
slung from the shoulders of the red-faced boys, and with 
the home-made caps with ear-warmers of different tex- 
tures, are thrown in the corner. Baby has fallen asleep 
in the tired mother's lap; Elmer dozes across a chair; 
John lies curled up back of the stove; Arthur leans on the 
table, poring over a six-weeks'-old weekly, while Clara 
sleeps on the home-made settee under an oat sack. And 
this, too, is Christmas eve — the calendar says so. 
However, to the close observer there could be seen 
lurking in those sleepy eyes a substantial expectancy, 
which grows more intense as Henry's heavy boots are 
heard thumping on the frozen ground without. Nor 
could anyone question the degree of genuine gladness felt 
by that little flock as they greet the father after his three- 
mile trudge across the mountain from the village in the 
valley. It is with strong pride the father drops from his 
shoulders the burden he carries, and from it brings to 
view three pairs of stout cowhide boots with brass toes 
and red tops, ten yards of twenty-cent plaid goods, a 
bright red warm hood for Clara, a pink outing flannel 
dregs for baby, and a brown sugar bag full of menagerie 
candy toys for all, ; 
And now again the patter of footfalls cease on the 
bare floor above; sticky hands and faces repose in 
healthy slumber beneath the patch-work quilts, while 
the mother tucks them in and kisses each one good-night. 
The candle grows shorter and the light sputters in its 
own substance as Henry pulls off his boots and plans 
fresh inroads on his buckwheat bin to pay for his merry 
Christmas. 
"But ah, pup, what a time we had on our last trip 
after grouse. Henry, dear old Henry, what an excellent 
guide he is. But we go south next week, and there, too, 
we will have a great time. Drop, Donald. Drop, boy, 
and go to sleep. What fine strapping children Henry 
has. I wonder if my boys will be so strong and rugged. 
And this is Christmas eve — ^liave I remembered them?" 
When we know what a box filled with a few dollars' 
worth of genuine Christmas toys will do; when we re- 
alize the hearts it will make glad; when we see at what 
little cost, indeed, happiness can be bought, isn't it a 
wonder the market is not cornered? And how easy to 
escape the question, "Have I remembered?" - 
Thomas Elmer Batten. 
Who are these Red Gods that Call? 
Our forsworn heritage, gods of our fathers, gods of 
our race. Gods of that race that from the childhood 
of the world has fought on and won, ever opposing an 
invincible front to ruder barbarism, neA^er beaten but 
by its own kind; leaving through the ages the high 
points of its supremacy in the intellectual peak of the 
Hindu dialectic, the art of the Hellene, the mailed em- 
pire of the Roman; the race that spanned half a world 
while it was yet no more than wandering tribes, that 
took a new start and has spanned a world complete; 
the Indo-Germanic race, the Indo-European race — less 
of a mouthful of words, the Aryan race — in short, our 
own. And while this race of ours was in its cradle 
of mystery, when men were young and gods were new, 
our forbears called their gods "the red ones"; and it 
answered all their needs, whether of description or of 
devotion. 
A parenthesis — and the implication of a syllogism, 
for such as prefer their logic formal. "And God said, 
'Let us make man in our image,'" and he made him 
and called him Adam, the red. Now, it is not far to 
reason back that the god which Abram took with him 
from Ur of the Chaldees was a red god. 
Red were the gods when our ancestors lived afield 
and were in fearless fellowship with the gods that 
people every stream in every forest. Red the gods re- 
mained while the proto-Aryans swept out from their 
cradle and peopled the world. Red were the gods who 
looked down upon the building of Kapilavastu, that 
first great city that has proved the type of other great 
cities, even of our own, in which men forget the good 
gods and go, maybe, color blind, and fiercely query, 
Who is this man, that he should call the gods red? 
Not even a poet may fairly be judged away from his 
own horizon. Stop a moment and think what was Mr. 
Kipling's horizon in his childhood when he was pocket- 
ing those facts of boyhood vision which become the 
images and the fancy of maturer thought. His early 
life was spent in India, where our kinsfolk think no 
shame to have before their view artistic conceptions of 
the gods they still believe in. And those gods are red 
to-day, red by long tradition of the past. 
One need but open anywhere the sacred books of our 
share of the East to catch the gleam of the color. Far 
in the backward of the ages, when the gods were princi- 
ples plain to the people of the forest, long before they 
had been debased into anthropomorphs or zoomorphs, 
the early Aryan saw his gods red and called them so. 
In the earliest Rig Veda the color shines out. There is 
Dyaus, the open sky, the Zeus of the Olj'mpian pan- 
theon, the Jupiter of the Capitolium (yet with a sport 
of philologic atavism even so sophisticated a citizen as 
Horace writes, sub Jove frigido — "under the chill and 
open sky" — and last of all the Tuisco of the northern 
peoples, this latter being a point yet held a problem. 
Through all these ages runs the influence of the red 
Dyaus, the first god of forest folk, the arch of the 
sky. Nor is this the onlj'- red god of our early race. 
The Rig Vedas glow with them. There are, for an 
instance, the Maruts; red gods are they, and sons of a 
red god, too, for their father is Rudra. Rudra must 
have been the reddest god of all, for his name means 
"the red" in the earliest Sanskrit. And so deeply is the 
color dyed into the skeleton of that word root that no 
time has sufficed to pale it, and Rudra of the primeval 
Sanskrit is no more ruddy than its descendant "red" 
of which there are those who would question its appli- 
cation to gods, when here we trace the word back to a 
god that was red because he was a god, a god because 
he was red. Of the sons of Dyaus, the Agvins, in the 
Vedas, one was dark, but the other was red. The 
earliest worshipped aspect of the sun, the red ball in 
the sky, was called Surya, the red one, and that has 
passed along the ages to be the Helios of the Greek 
and the Sol of the Latin, and with either hand to fill 
our English speech with the redness of this god. One 
might heap particular on particular in a very sorites of 
red proof. But it is not needed and would be no more 
than curious, for there is an elemental abstract in the 
same early Rig Veda. All the gods, whether the sac- 
red hymn specifies that they are red or leaves that point 
of hue unstated, all are grouped under the common 
name, the Devas, and the Devas themselves are noth- 
ing less than the red ones, the shining ones. We have 
gone astray after many strange gods, but at least we 
try to assure ourselves that they are not strange, but 
Devas after all, whenever we use the words "deity," 
"divine" or "theology." 
So, it is no wonder that Mr. Kipling says that red 
are the gods that call the young men; the rather were 
the wonder if he were to call the gods other. And not 
the poet alone with his monosyllable "red" that has had 
its due effect upon so many great bulls of Bashan. 
Who is there will not quite as clearly render the red- 
ness to the red gods? There may be other tongues of 
men in which the gods are not red, but our speech 
glows with the color of our forefathers' gods, the red 
ones. We cannot avoid the ascription and the fed 
Credo. Every time we bend to inhale- the sweet odor 
of the heliotrope, every time the reverent hand is lifted 
over bowed heads to invoke the divine blessing, every 
time we look at the dial for the solar time, in these 
words and in scores of others we also say "the gods 
are red," and we cannot say other. 
William Churchill. 
A Camp-Fire on Fifth Avenue. 
A camper's freedom from restraint, 
A hunter's plain and simple fare; 
Good-feilowship our patron saint, 
And when we meet — "begone, dull care!" 
This small word picture is delightfully descriotive, 
and illustrates in nice detail the "total abandon" en- 
joyed by the Camp-fire Ckib of America and their 
guests Saturday evening, Dec. 5, at the Aldine Club 
rooms. Fifth avenue. New York. 
The fire was lighted promptly at 6:30, each fellow 
trying to 6utdo the other in gathering uninflammable 
material From the remotest parts of Alaska, from 
the Sierra Madre mountains, the interior of Mexico, 
from Montana and Colorado, from Nova Scotia, New 
Brunswick and Ontario; in fact from everywhere where 
the footprints of civilized man is less seen, were con- 
tributed many bits of unwritten history of wide ex- 
periences, until geography so minimized itself that the 
smell of burning spruce of Alaska, the pine knots of the 
Sierras, the canyon scrub of Mexico, the dried grass 
of the plains, the cottonwood of Montana, the jack 
pines of Michigan, the birch bark of Canada, seemed 
to mingle and blend, furnishing an aroma of wood 
scents to gladden all hearts and make every one of the 
campers next door neighbors. 
Never was "begone, dull care," more delightfully ex- 
emplified than in Mr. Coffin, the toastmaster of the 
evening. He was like a child with a new toy that 
wouldn't "stay put." 
The guest pf the evening was Mr. Alfred H. Brooks, - 
of the United States Geological Survey. Mr. Brooks' 
description of his exploration into the interior of 
Alaska, including in his remarks his attack on Mt. 
McKinley, contained many interesting details of that 
vast region of the northwest — of the hardships suffered 
by both man and beast during his 800 miles' journey 
by pack train. An added feature of Mr. Brooks' ad- 
dress was his wonderful collections of photographs 
taken on the journey; the photographs were passed 
around the tables during his talk, a map of the United 
States was shown on the wall back of the president's 
chair, with a map of Alaska in dark coloring in the 
center, thus showing by comparison the tremendous 
area of square miles contained in Alaska — on the south- 
ern boundary it reached from Savannah to Los Ange- 
les, and from Ohio to Iowa in the center, and covered 
nearly the whole country from the Gulf of Mexico to 
the Dominion of Canada. 
The other speakers were President William T. Horn- 
aday, whose opening address was a delight to all present. 
Mr. Hornaday spoke of the splendid lot of talent to be 
heard from during the evening, and then introduced Mr. 
Coffin as toastmaster of the evening, and it is needless to 
say that the selection was a particularly good one. 
In introducing Mr. Beard, Mr. Coffin made the remark 
that all who knew Mr. Beard loved him ; after Mr. Beard 
finished his delightful talk, interspersed with very clever 
stories, those who had not known him before were ready 
to yield up their affection there and then. 
Captain Merrill, of the United States Navy, entertained 
the campers with a charming bit of naval history, as well 
as with some of his own interesting experiences. 
Mr. Charles Sheldon, who has spent a great many years 
in the interior of Mexico, gave a geographical descrip- 
tion of that interesting country, which was new to many 
present, and his description of the game throughout Old 
IMcxicc, the dift'erent kinds and how they are hunted, 
excited very keen interest. 
Mr. J. H. Seymour is evidently never at a loss to tell 
not only one interesting story, but a series of them; it 
was made manifest that with Mr. Seymour each expe- 
rience not only entertains at the time, but brings to the 
surface reminiscent thoughts, which delight all who are 
so fortunate as to be among his listeners. 
Mr. Ezra H. Fitch gave a delightful account of his re- 
cent canoe trip of over six hundred miles into the interior 
of the Dominion of Canada, telling of the game seen 
there, conditions for hunting it and a very interesting 
history of the Hudson Bay Company from the time of the 
granting of its charter by Charles II., to the present day; 
and while surprises are to a great degree lost among 
such men as the members of the Camp-Fire Club of 
America, a great rnany were surprised to learn of the 
vast amount of territory controlled by this company; Mr, 
Filch averred that it covers a greater area of square 
miles than the United States. 
The next to respond to the chair was Mr. Thomas 
Elmer Batten, of Forest anb Stream. Mr. Charles H. 
Townsend was happily left as the last speaker of the 
evening; evidently Mr. Coffin served him up as the pie 
to the meal ; his dialect stories were exceedingly clever 
and well done. Mr. Townsend is one of the new mem- 
bers of the Camp-Fire Club, and judging from the ap- 
plause he received it was very apparent that he is a 
valuable acquisition for all time to come at these delight- 
ful dinners. 
The members present were: A. A. Anderson, L. O. 
Armstrong, Daniel Beard, W. H. Boardman. Prof. M. 
T. Bogert, Geo. Wm. Burleigh, H. L. Cadmus, F. A. 
Coffin, W^m. Edw. Cofiin, Dr. C. C. Curtis, E. W. Dem- 
ing, W. C. Demorest, J. A. Dimock, A. W. Dimock, 
W. H. Drake, Dr. R. W. Eastman, J. S. Emans, Paul 
Farnum, E. H. Fitch, F. L. Gamage, Prof. Wm. T. 
Hornaday, E. H. Hotchkiss, Geo. L. Hubbell, L. C. 
Ivory, Dr. R. T. MacDougal, A. G. Millbank, A. J. 
Millbank, Dr. R. T. Morris, Dr. J. J, Noll, Lynde Pal- 
mer, Carl Pickhardt, Dr. E. H. Raymond. E. H. Ray- 
mond, Jr., Arthur F. Rice, E. B. Rogers, G. T. Rogers, 
Carl Rungius, Frank Seaman, Edmund Seymour, J. 
