648 
December, 1920 
FROM ARIZONA 
To the Editor of Forest and Stream : 
E ACH month when the good old 
paper comes I say: “Well, I will 
send a few lines for the boys to look 
at from an oldtimer.” But the days 
and the weeks slip by and nothing is 
done. You know these old wom-out 
fellows like myself can talk big about 
what they have done, or what they are 
going to do, and usually it all ends in 
talk. Now I am sorta’ driven to the 
wall and must write in self-defence as it 
were. You see, that little squib you put 
in the September issue flushed a bunch 
of inquiries from all over the brush; 
every mail brings me some of them and 
I am going to be game and answer 
them all if the typewriter will only 
hold out. One thing' is sure: if I had 
something I wanted to sell badly I 
would only have to tell Forest and 
Stream and you can call it a safe bet 
I would find a buyer. If there is any 
question that can be asked about a 
country which I have not been asked 
in these letters I don't know what it 
could be. One good-hearted brother in 
Pennsylvania showed that he had the 
heart of a true sportsman in his breast 
and wrote me a mighty nice letter re- 
garding my crippled condition; he is a 
doctor by profession, but the brother- 
hood of man is uppermost in his make- 
nip. It is certainly one of the greatest 
pleasures in life to know that after all 
if we only look at the right side of 
things we will find hearts warm and 
kind. 
Now I am going to try to give all the 
sportsmen who are interested in this 
wild country some idea of what we 
have here: First as to the game, you 
can find anything you want, either for 
rifle or splatter gun; bear, dear, wild 
turkey, and a little farther north of 
here, elk, panther, coyote and other 
fur, furnishing lots of trapping; rabbit, 
•quail by the thousand, squirrel, etc.; 
trout in the streams, and in the great 
Roosevelt Lake, bass that will give you 
a good fight to land. 
Many of the writers have asked 
about the farming lands. This is not 
what you would call a farming coun- 
try; we are in a mountainous country, 
but, nevertheless, there are some good 
farms in the valleys. There is some- 
thing in the climate and soil that gives 
the fruits, vegetables and grain the 
•finest of flavor and snap. I lived 
twelve years in California but the 
fruit and other stuff grown on these 
Arizona hills are far ahead of the Cali- 
fornia products in snap and flavor. 
Com grows and makes a good crop 
by the natural rainfall, and makes the 
finest flavored meal you ever tasted. 
Cattle, however, are the chief indus- 
try with us; the winters are mild and 
no stock is winter-fed here. 
The climate is such that the camper 
can live under the trees week after 
week and enjoy every moment; no 
skeeters to keep him awake, and no 
fleas to chase up and down his anatomy. 
For the man who likes to dig among 
the rocks this is a place of promise; 
we have some good mines already work- 
ing, and the hills have not been half 
prospected. Arizona is a wonderful 
copper State. There is also a good 
showing of gold, silver and other ores. 
The facts of the situation are just 
this: Arizona is a state of wonderful 
resources and there is plenty of room 
for men of snap and grit. There is a 
welcome awaiting such men. If I were 
in my prime, with youth and strength 
to back me I would take advantage of 
some of the opportunities offered here, 
but my race is too nearly run. I am 
too far down the western slope to bur- 
den myself with the cares of much busi- 
ness, but I love this wild, unsettled 
country where I can be “near to Na- 
ture’s heart.” Here is where I expect 
to see the final and last crimson sun- 
set, after a somewhat strenuous life. 
It is good to be here at eventime instead 
of in the roar and rush of the heartless 
city. After the toil of the day is done 
I fill my good old pipe, take my chair 
out under the big oak tree in my yard 
and sit and listen to the mocking bird 
in the tree top as he sings out the song 
of happiness God puts in his little 
heart. Across the valley I see the 
gleam of the Indian campfire and hear 
the weird songs. Over the eastern 
mountain the moon in all her beauty 
is slowly rising. The stars come out 
one by one and I fall to wondering 
what scenes they have looked upon in 
their rounds. I feel at peace with all 
mankind, and only wish that others 
could be just as contented with their 
lot as I am with mine. The moon 
climbs higher and higher, the glow of 
the Indian camp fire grows dim, the 
song of the birl dies away to a sleepy 
note, my pipe is out, and the day is 
done. One step more has been taken 
on the long, long journey. 
Do you know I devour everything 
in your good old paper every month, 
but I certainly do not miss a word of 
Dr. Henshall’s yarns; his trips in the 
south in particular, as I have hunted 
much myself in that territory. I would 
be happy if I could pole a boat around 
in a cypress swamp once more. Best 
wishes to all good sportsmen. 
E. M. Saunders, Arizona. 
WHY DID HE DO IT? 
To the Editor of Forest and Stream: 
T HE above question was asked me 
in a letter by Pete Engeln, an old 
time fishing pal of mine in the Fox 
River country in Wisconsin. 
A few weeks ago Pete was fishing in 
Lake Defiance, not far from Woodstock, 
Illinois, and among other things caught 
a four-pound big-lnouth bass, with a 
full sized lily pad packed away in its 
stomach. 
Pete said: “The fish were crazy for 
frogs, but didn’t seem hungry for any- 
thing else. Curious to find out if they 
had a liking for any other food, I held 
a post mortem on this big fellow; cut 
him open and explored his interior. 
The result was that if he hadn’t struck 
so fiercely at my frog I might have 
thought him a vegetarian, for all 
doubled up and neatly put away in his 
stomach was this lily pad. Now the 
question is: Did he take it from choice, 
because he was fond of greens, or by 
accident, striking at a frog or a rail 
bird and only getting the pad on which 
it rested?” 
For myself I don’t know. Fish, also 
birds, have queer tastes at times. Once 
I caught a rock cod with its stomach 
full of asparagus — canned goods, for it 
was in the fall, evidently the dumpings 
from some steamer crossing the bay — 
and I have heard of all sorts of queer 
things being found in the stomachs of 
sharks, but personally I have never 
found anything more serious than a 
bottle cork in one and a lead sinker in 
another. Also, I have sden a fish, pre- 
sumably a pickerel, strike at a rail 
running over the lily pads. Once, at 
least, aiming straight and getting his 
bird, more often missing but always 
tearing the pad badly. A large trout 
will often take a chance at a water- 
robin and sometimes win out, although 
those birds that feed along the moun- 
tain streams are pretty wise them- 
selves. Once a mammoth pickerel cut 
a bass from a stringer hanging over 
the side of my boat and took it away 
as if it belonged, to him. Again, this 
time when fishing in salt water, a black 
cod weighing eight pounds set his teeth 
so firmly in a half pounder hooked in 
the regular way, and held on so tightly 
that it was possible to get him along- 
side the boat and into a landing net. 
