48 
FOREST AND STREAM 
July 12, 1913 
Published Weekly by the 
Forest and Stream Publishing Company, 
Charles Otis, President. 
W. G. Beecroft, Secretary. W. J. Gallagher, Treasurer. 
127 Franklin Street, New York. 
CORRESPONDENCE — Forest and Stream is the 
recognized medium of entertainment, instruction and in¬ 
formation between American sportsmen. The editors 
invite communications on the subjects to which its pages 
are devoted, but, of course, are not responsible for the 
views of correspondents. Anonymous communications 
cannot be regarded. 
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THE SORROWS OF SPORTSMEN. 
Even so happy a man as is he who disports 
himself with rod and gun has his vexations and 
sorrows, as has the unhappier and less favored 
mortal whose pleasure lies in walks outside of 
quiet woods and afar from pleasant waters. Of 
the sportsman’s vexations may be mentioned 
many pertaining to things inanimate and ani¬ 
mate; as of the first kinking lines, ill-working 
reels, non-exploding caps and primers, sticking 
shells, unsticking wads, and no end of such per¬ 
verse belongings to the angler’s and gunner’s 
outfit, as well as those which come in his way, 
as twigs, logs, bogs, cold water under foot and 
pouring from overhead, to switch, tangle, trip, 
bemire and soak him. Of animate things, how 
will all the insects of the air and earth combine 
to torture him, and how will the very objects 
of his pursuit forsake all the laws and rules laid 
down by nature and custom, and thwart his 
most skillful endeavors to possess them. 
But all these are nothing to the vexation 
and sorrow wrought unto his soul by his brother 
man. There are those counted honest in ordi¬ 
nary affairs of life who will poach in close times 
and rob their honester fellows of that which 
not enriches them and makes others poor, indeed, 
in the loss of time and satisfaction of reasonable 
desires. And there are also lawmakers who put 
pig’s heads on their shoulders when they come 
to making laws for the protection of fish and 
game, though they bear the levelest of brains 
when matters of valuation and taxation are con¬ 
cerned. 
And yet these are vexations of the spirit 
which one happy day of sport may lift, as north 
wind and sunshine the fog from the landscape. 
But when he, who has not been by his favorite 
stream since the year ago summer when birds 
and fields welcomed him with song and holiday 
attire, now finds the banks laid bare by the axe, 
and the stream turned away by some scientific 
agriculturist who hates willows and crooked 
waterways; when he, who has not visited copse 
and wood with dog and gun since last year’s 
leaves were gaudy or sere, goes out to-day to 
find the alders he had come to think his own, 
only brush heaps and clusters of stubby stumps; 
his worshipped hemlocks and pines, his lithe 
birches and widespread beeches and bee-inviting 
dogw'oods, only saw logs and piles of cord wood 
lying in state among looped branches and fluffy 
plumes of fire w'eed, his heart grows sick with 
a climbing sorrow that will not down. How 
suddenly has his goodly heritage passed from 
him. A year ago he had more good of it than 
the one who held the deed of the land, though 
he got naught tangible therefrom but a half- 
filled creel or a few brace of birds. Yet how 
full was fed his starved spirit that so long had 
craved the blessed food that nature gave to 
those who love her! 
The worst of it is that if he prays, or 
curses, or weeps, he cannot change it. By and 
by over this waste may be heard the "lovely 
laughter of the wind-swept wheat” and the hum 
of bees come here to gather sweets from clover, 
but never again will brood over it the solemn 
quiet of the old woods, nor grouse cleave the 
shadows of great trees, nor woodcock thread the 
mazes of the brake, nor trout swim in the shade 
of the willows. This is the heaviest grief that 
comes to the man who uses rod and gun, or to 
him who hunts without a gun. Yet some good 
may come of it. for thereby he may learn to 
pity his red brother, who loved all these things 
and suffered greater loss in their passing from 
him. 
DUTIES OF A GAME PROTECTOR. 
A good game protector should be a clean 
cut kind of a man, decent and respectable in 
every way, and a gentleman at all times. He 
must be a worker and accomplish the things he 
undertakes; he must have interest in his work 
other than counting the days between pay day 
and running up large expense accounts. To sum 
it all up, he must be a true sportsman greatly 
interested in his work for the good he may 
accomplish for every man, woman and child in 
the State. 
A protector should have no side lines which 
might tend to interfere with his duties; must 
be right on the job at all times and respond 
to the call of duty night or day, as his whole 
time belongs to the people. He must be fear¬ 
less in the discharge of his duty and in times 
of danger be collected and resourceful. It is 
this class of protector who are many times able 
to clear up a dangerous situation without serious 
results. 
Politics must be eliminated entirely from his 
work, which he is sworn to perform. He must 
be thoroughly honest with himself, and if he 
isn’t, he should resign from the force and save 
others the trouble putting him off, as he will 
not last long as a game protector. 
[These sentiments, so ably expressed by 
W. H. Weston, Division Chief of Central New 
York for the State Conservation Commission, 
so freely states our sentiments in relation to 
game wardens and protectors that we find great 
satisfaction in hearing them expressed by a 
competent chief, raised in the service. While 
the opinions come from a division head, we 
know from observation that it is a reflection of 
opinion of the majority of the rank and file in 
the service throughout the country.— Editor.] 
FISH HOGS. 
In another column appears an article by 
W. J. Carroll, for many years an pfficial in the 
Government service in Newfoundland. The fol¬ 
lowing paragraph appears in his article: 
"Last season it was reported that certain 
anglers monopolized the pools by mooring their 
canoes in the best places, fishing as long as 
suited them, and then sleeping in their canoes, 
thus holding the waters against all comers. It 
was also said that these same ‘sports’ got their 
guides and cooks to fish for them, so that they 
could get fish enough to smoke and cure to 
take away with them and thus pay the expenses 
of the trip.” 
Personally we cannot conceive of an Ameri¬ 
can pursuing such tactics. We are certain no 
sportsman did such a thing, because a man who 
would "hog” a fishing ground for the sake of 
getting his license money back through his catch 
would not be classed a sportsman, perhaps one 
could call him a “sport.” He belongs in the 
now almost defunct society of market hunters. 
Unfortunately, however, the fact that some of 
these “hogs” happen to be American predisposes 
Newfoundland fishermen toward the belief that 
the man who can’t fish in a stream with a 
prince and act like one is a representative Amer¬ 
ican sportsmen, that we are all alike. Help us 
to dispel this idea by taking every opportunity 
to make the fish "hogs” feel their position, which 
soon will teach them sportsmen’s manners—al¬ 
ways those of gentlemen. 
The Lure of the Trail. 
BY CELIA DAVIS HUNT. 
O “pal o’ mine” through the falling dew, 
“Little Comrade’s” voice is calling you; 
’Tis the call of the wild, o’er hill and dale. 
The charm of the forest—the lure of the trail. 
Autumn is here with its gold and red; 
Skies of azure are overhead; 
Shorn fields are swept by the sighing winds 
At the edge of the woods where the trail begins. 
Deeper it leads into forest glade, 
Away from the sunlight, into the shade; 
Here ’neath an arbor of wild grape vines, 
Over a fallen tree it winds. 
Where the old log bridge spans the mountain brook, 
Forget-me-nots blue grow in every nook; 
And cattails tall guard their lowly beds 
At eve, when they droop their dainty heads. 
(The trail lies close to the streamlet’s brink) 
Where the timid deer steal down to drink, 
Now ’mid a tangle of fern and brake. 
It leads away toward the distant lake. 
Dimpling, sparkling, emerald green, 
In shafts of sunlight, the trees between, 
Lieth the lake—a fairy pool 
Of crystal waters so pure and cool. 
Trailing his robes through the crimson west. 
The great sun slowly sinks to rest; 
A partridge drums in the waning light; 
A gray squirrel chatters with all his might. 
The cool winds sigh in the gathering dusk. 
The birds and the streamlets call to us; 
Let us hit the trail, dear “pal o’ mine,” 
Once more for the days of “auld lang syne.” 
Away from the city’s toil and pain, 
Back to the sweet wild woods again; 
“Pal o’ mine,” ere we part at last, 
May I take your hand in a friendly clasp? 
And by and by, when our day is done. 
Our faces turned toward the setting sun. 
May I hear your voice through the shadowy vale. 
Calling to me on that last long trail. 
