February, 1919 
FOREST AND STREAM 
79 
the real stories in the magazine. 
Gentlemen, I wish to make a sugges- 
tion, not thinking to improve your paper, 
for it could not be improved upon, but 
because of something I and some of my 
friends would like. 
The many accidents and near-accidents 
which occur in the Maine woods would 
often be avoidable if the chances of such 
things ever happening were presented to 
the hunter’s mind. 
If you could give your readers a col- 
umn or two in which you would print an 
outline of accidents that occurred or were 
avoided, how it happened, how it came 
near happening, etc., it might bring be- 
fore the reader’s mind possibilities that 
had never occurred to him before, and 
might save someone the necessity of 
undergoing the experience, as we did, to 
teach him how to avoid such occurrences. 
Request your readers to write of actual 
happenings only, and just as it came 
about, substituting fictitious names of 
persons and places only, as some of these 
experiences will still be painfully fresh 
in the minds of some of the victims. 
While of course others (those that came 
out all right) can only bring a smile when 
referred to. 
If by so doing you can save discomfort 
or a bad scare for someone, or perhaps a 
life, I think you will be well repaid for 
the use of a column or so. 
If you act upon this suggestion I sin- 
cerely hope you will receive many inter- 
esting contributions. 
Chas. L. Burns, Maine. 
We believe with Mr. Bums that many 
accidents would he avoided if people 
sensed the dangerous causes. These col- 
umns are open to any of our readers who 
have something to tell us along the lines 
of the above suggestion. — [Editors.] 
THE PASSING OF “TILLIE” 
To the Editor of Forest and Stream : 
I AM writing the obituary of “ Tillie,” 
who opened her eyes to the world just 
eleven years ago. She was a native 
daughter of the State of California, and 
was born on the magnificent cattle ranch, 
“Paso Lee Rancho,” owned by Mr. and 
Mrs. Arthur K. Lee. This ranch is lo- 
cated in Sonoma County, a few miles 
north of Geyserville. 
Arthur Lee is a wealthy New Yorker 
who prefers riding a cattle range to a 
promenade up Fifth Avenue. Mrs. Lee 
shares her husband’s tastes and is a 
skilled horsewoman. Their ranch is a 
hospitable haven of rest for bankers, doc- 
tors, judges and lawyers who want a 
short respite from the rush and whirl 
of a great city. Their ranch is also the 
haven of rest for all game. Seldom 
is a deer hunt allowed on their property. 
One June evening, Mr. and Mrs. Lee 
were taking a stroll after dinner — and 
who should walk up to them with no 
sense of fear but “Tillie.” She had been 
cruelly abandoned and was looking for 
a home. “Tillie” at that time was a 
fawn just about three weeks old. Arthur 
Lee carried “Tillie” home under his arm 
and in no time “Tillie” was having a 
good supper from a nursing bottle. All 
that summer “Tillie” lived in the or- 
chard — and then in the late fall she 
heard the call of the wild, and dis- 
appeared. 
But next spring she was back again 
to “Paso Lee Rancho” and was a favored 
guest. For eleven years “Tillie” has been 
a summer boarder of the Lee ranch and 
every day about dusk she would come 
doviTi the hill to be fed. If you would 
not bother her fawns too much she would 
let you feed them too. She would bring 
her two fawns down just at twilight with 
a proud air. You could pat her neck 
and back all you wanted to, while you 
fed her stale bread or potato peelings. 
But make one move to touch the fawns 
— and in a fiash the trio were gone. 
“Tillie” was always adorned with a 
bright piece of ribbon by Mrs. Lee — so 
that even doe shooters would respect her 
motherhood. She was cut up once or 
twice by barbed wire but nothing serious 
happened to her until recently. “Tillie” 
was missing and a searching party in- 
stituted. She was found cold in death 
“ Tillie ” and her fawns 
not a quarter of a mile from where she 
first found her foster parents. “Tillie” 
was given a decent burial and a tomb- 
stone has been placed over the grave — 
and she is at rest on the “Paso Lee Ran- 
cho” which meant so much to her in her 
life. 
Sidney P. Robertson, California. 
NATURE’S REQUIEM 
To the Editor of Forest and Stream: 
T WENT home the other night, pulled 
off my shoes, traded them for a pair 
of slippers, got comfortably settled in a 
big chair by the open fire, and fell to 
pondering on the passing of years. 
The blare of trumpets acclaimed each 
coming New Year — toast and song and 
revelry by night welcomed the new king 
— but never a word of the Old Year; 
and here was I — living in the last days 
of one that was dying, and dying fast. 
Out of doors I could hear the wind 
hustling the falling snow here and there. 
covering the unsightly spots, blotting out 
the scars of earth that the Old Year’s 
glassing eyes might close in peace. 
I fell to wondering how the Old Year 
felt about dying — it had lived its allotted 
time, did it grieve to go? 
At its birth the time of its passing had 
been decreed; so unlike the various life 
that quickened its existence, it knew to 
the hour its final decease. 
Was the Old Year leaving a heartache, 
was there sadness and a longing for a 
few more days of life, or did the world 
make merry only over the days to fol- 
low? Was it off with the old — on with 
the untried new? 
So on the morrow I would see how the 
Old Year felt about it; it was to be the 
last day. And then the question came: 
Where could I get the nearest to old 
'18? 
Not in the crowded walks of this great 
city; here there would be no sorrow; 
the bells too quickly would peal out tid- 
ings of the new king’s birth. No; I 
would watch in the shadow of the pines, 
near to nature’s heart, and mourn alone 
with her at the midnight hour. 
So on the following evening just as the 
shadows crept in and settled on the busy 
streets, I started for the woods, the pines 
and solitude. Out through the paved 
walks of the city, just as the lights be- 
gan to show, just as the day of toil was 
ending. How cold it was, how blue the 
sky with its dancing stars — worlds that 
had illumined the birthdays of centuries. 
At last I was out of the city, the woods 
stood sentinel on either hand, the white 
carpet was laid, the moon furnished the 
shadow dancers, as the wind played a 
weird tune; and moved to the music, the 
birch and maple balanced to their shadow 
partners on the snow. 
I climbed the fence at the roadside 
and struck out across the field, resolved 
to climb the mountaiik side showing dark 
against the sky. Just here in this little 
clump of birches one day last fall, a 
woodcock met an untimely end; it was 
such a woodcock as artists put on can- 
vas. How different the spot looks by 
moonlight. I was standing just where 
the old dog pointed that day when the 
leaves were falling. There in front of 
him the woodcock flushed; I could almost 
hear again Ae whistle and the wings — 
but alas! it is now but a memory of ’18. 
I climbed the hill and stopped under 
a giant pine who had stood so well his 
winter vigil that the snow found no 
chance to thrust beneath his guard, and 
the ground was bare. Beneath me, lights 
of the city twinkled in answer to the 
stars. The little lake shown like an 
opal at the foot of the mountain. Not 
a sound broke the stillness of the night, 
and save for the sad faced moon, looking 
down, I knew of no mourner but myself 
for the Old Year. 
Woods and fields where my dogs and 
I had spent red-letter days lay at my 
feet. I could see here a spot and there 
another where the heart had quickened. 
I could almost fancy the dull boom of 
the double barrels as the bird went on. 
I heard the music of the hounds on a 
far away hill, and I followed my own 
