168 
FOREST AND STREA.M 
April, 1919 
FORESTa^STREAM 
FORTY-EIGHTH YEAR 
FOUNDERS OF THE AUDUBON SOCIETY 
GOVERNING BOARD: 
GEORGE BIRD GRINNELL, New York, N. Y. 
CARL E. AEELEY. American Museum of Natural History, New York 
FRANK S, DAGGETT, Museum of Science, Los Angeles, Cal. 
EDMUND HELLER, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, D. C< 
0. HART MERRIAM, Biological Survey, Washington, D. C, 
WILFRED H. OSGOOD, Field Museum of Natural History, Chicago, 111. 
JOHN M. PHILLIPS, Pennsylvania Game Commission, Pittsburgh, Pa. 
CHARLES SHELDON, Washington. D. C. 
GEORGE SHIRAS, 3rd. Washington. D, C. 
WILLIAM BRUETTE, Editor 
JOHN P. HOLMAN, Associate Editor 
TOM WOOD, Manager 
Nine East Fortieth Street, New York City 
THE OBJECT OF THIS JOURNAL WILL BE TO 
studiously promote a healthful interest in outdoor rec- 
reation, and a refined taste for natural objects. 
August 14, 1873. 
THE ARROW SHOOTER 
'T' HE real sportsman, the genuine lover of God’s 
Out-of-doors, learns some of the finest things of 
life along the taper of his rod and the rib of his gun. 
For one thing, he is a chaser of rainbows, and in 
this chase has learned that romance lies everywhere, 
waiting for him to flush it; adventure hides all 
around him, waiting only for the right fly to lure 
it from the hidden depths. He knows that in his 
rainbow chasing he may never find the pot of gold — 
but this he knows, that life is good, and the chase 
of it better; and the long, sunny trail to adventure 
alluring starts anywhere his feet may chance to be, 
if only he have the nerve to follow it. 
Few of us shoot all our arrows. And many of us 
dream of the trail that leads to coral islands lying 
in an azure sea, where pearls hide by golden sands 
and palm fronds wave to the tropic breeze . . . the 
trail of adventure. Ah, how we dream and dream 
. . . and say, “It cannot be.” When, did we but 
see it, there, at our very feet, lies the trail to it all. 
We can have it any day, if only we have the nerve 
to go get it. 
But we .never shoot all our arrows. One or two, 
a dozen it may be, but never the full quiver emptied. 
It is so your hunter starts on his hunt, and all 
through the long day he beats the bush and sweeps 
the plain, till at last, discouraged, he says, “There 
is no game. Life is humdrum, life is drab. It’s too 
civilized. What’s the use?” And he flings his gun 
on his shoulder in disgust, steps wearily homeward 
. . . and . . . Whir-r-r-r . . . There they rise with 
thunder of wing and clamor of cackling throat, a 
bevy of gorgeous grouse, a covey of them, sailing 
and soaring an instant, then swallowed up in the 
drab thicket again . . . without a single following 
shot ! ! ! 
So your hunter stands, agape a moment, then, 
grumbling at his unreadiness steps out again, home- 
ward. “What’s the use? It’s only a stray covey. 
gone now. The world is gameless, adventureless, 
drab.” And as he draws near the camp where his 
team waits, he pulls the shells from his gun, snaps 
it shut with a sigh . . . steps out — Whir-r-r-r — ^they 
rise with clatter of wing and cackle of throat, a sun- 
burst of living rainbows, half a dozen of them, gor- 
geous cock pheasant and iridescent hen, sailing, flap- 
ping, sailing to land in the distant swamp afar off, 
while grayness settles on the hunter’s world again. 
None of us shoot all our arrows, most of us not 
half of them. We wade the old stream, cast fly 
after fly, and get not a rise. Enthusiasm wanes, 
hope deferred makes the heart sick. Till we say, 
“The world is fished out; there isn’t a trout left in 
it. There lies the pool, Sundappled, cool, weaving 
froth wreaths o’er its dappled depths,” but no fish? 
Toiled all day and taken nothing? Listless the fly 
sails, and settles, and our minds wander on the drab 
monotony, and . . . Flip-p-p-p, splash ! ! ! and a tense 
rainbow shoots up, curves, and dives with open jaws 
at the fly. But your fisher hopeless, frozen into 
inactivity, never even strikes to the rise — only stands 
agape with surprise while the ripples close slowly 
over the radiant spot. 
None of us shoot all our arrows — we work awhile, 
and then lose hope, and courage wanes. We have a 
mighty bow, a quiver full of polished arrows, each 
a masterpiece, and a target big as the world to 
shoot at — and we never shoot . . . 
So sportsman — fisher in many streams of life; 
hunter in many a strange field — what’s the matter 
with you . . . YOU? Shoot man, shoot all your ar- 
rows. For all life is a grand hunt, and many a drab 
thicket holds glorious game. Shoot, and be ready 
to shoot again, and yet again — all your long day 
of life. For the New Year is here, the Dawn of a 
BIG, NEW DAY ... So shoot — all you have and 
may the God of the real sportsman give you good 
hunting, good game — till the last light of earth fades 
and the Dawn breaks on the Great Divide, where, 
they tell us the Happy Hunting Grounds lie. 
A THEORY OF MIGRATION 
A N interesting lecture was given recently in Eng- 
land by Mr. C. J. Palmer, under the auspices 
of the Ipswich Field Club. After dealing with the 
habits and distribution of local birds, the lecturer 
discussed the theory of bird migration, and said in 
that distant period of geologic time before the ad- 
vent of the Ice Age, the region round the Pole was, 
it was supposed, tropical and luxuriant, and con- 
stituted the central headquarters of the great bird 
army of the world. Under the gradual pressure 
of increasing cold, first the immediate region round 
the Pole, and afterwards an ever-extending area, 
became too cold to support bird life in winter, and, 
as that season of the year approached, the birds 
were driven south. With the birds, however, the 
love of home and place is the ruling passion (the 
same swallow will nest in the same porch year after 
year), and, as soon as spring returned, the birds 
flocked back to their old nesting-places, released by 
the increasing heat of the sun from the ice-bound 
dominion of winter. After a time they were unable 
to return as far as their original homes, being 
stopped by the extending ice barrier. They then 
made their nesting-places as far north as the clim- 
ate and the pressure of their numbers over a given 
area permitted, to be again driven back in the win- 
ter, and next year to reach a nesting-place still 
