496 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Oct. 18, 1913. 
Published Weekly by the 
Forest and Stream Publishing Company, 
Charles A. Hazen, President. 
W. G. Beecroft, Secretary. Charles L. W ise, treasurer. 
127 Franklin Street, New York. 
CORRESPONDENCE — Forest and Stream is the 
recognized medium of entertainment, instruction and 
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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ADVERTISEMENTS: Display and classified, 20 cts. 
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ten and twenty per cent, discount for 13, -6 and 5- inser¬ 
tions, respectively, within one year. Forms close Monday 
in advance of publication date. 
OCTOBER DAYS. 
Fields as green as when the summer birds 
caroled above them, woods more gorgeous with 
innumerable hues and tints of ripening leaves 
than a blooming parterre, are spread beneath the 
azure sky, whose deepest color is reflected with 
intenser blue in lake and stream. In them 
against this color are set the scarlet and gold 
of every tree upon their brinks, the painted hills, 
the clear-cut mountain peaks, all downward 
pointing to the depths of this nether sky. 
Overhead, thistledown and the silken balloon 
of the milkweed float on their zephyr-wafted 
course, silver motes against the blue, and above 
them are the black cohorts of crows in their 
straggling retreat to softer climes. Now the 
dark column moves steadily onward, now veers 
in confusion from some suspected or discovered 
danger, or pauses to assail with a harsh clangor 
some sworn enemy of the sable brotherhood. 
Their gray-clad smaller cousins, the jays, 
are for the most part silently industrious among 
the gold' and bronze of the beeches, flitting to 
and fro with flashes of blue as they gather mast, 
but now and then finding time to scold an in¬ 
truder with an endless variety of discordant 
outcry. 
How sharp the dark shadows are cut against 
the sunlit fields, and in their gloom how brightly 
shine the first fallen leaves and the starry bloom 
of the asters. In cloudy days, and even when 
rain is falling, the depths of the woods are not 
dark, for the bright foliage seems to give forth 
light and casts no shadows beneath the lowering- 
sky. 
The scarlet maples glow, the golden leaves 
of poplar and birch shine through the misty veil, 
and the deep purple of the ash glows as if it 
held a smouldering fire that the first breeze 
might fan into a flame, and through all this 
luminous leafage one may trace branch and 
twig as a wick in a candle flame. Only the ever¬ 
greens are dark as when they bear their stead¬ 
fast green in the desolation of winter, and only 
they brood shadows. 
In such weather the woodland air is laden 
with the light burden of odor, more subtle than 
the scent of pine or fir, yet as apparent to the 
scent, as delightful and more rare, for in the 
round of the year its days are few, while in 
summer sunshine and winter wind, in spring¬ 
time shower and autumnal frost, pine, spruce, 
balsam, hemlock and cedar distil their perfume 
and lavish it on the breeze or gale of every 
season. 
Out of the marshes, now changing their uni¬ 
versal green to brown and bronze, floats a finer 
odor than their common reek of ooze and sodden 
weeds—a spicy tang of frost-ripened flags and 
the fainter breath of the landward border of 
ferns, and with these also is mingled the subtle 
pungency of the woodlands, where the pepperidge 
is burning out in a blaze of scarlet, and the yel¬ 
low flame of the- poplars flickers in the lightest 
breeze. 
The air is of a temper neither too hot nor 
too cold, and in what is now rather the good 
gay wood than green wood there are no longer 
pestering insects to worry the flesh and trouble 
the spirit. 
The flies bask in half torpid indolence, the 
tormenting whine of the mosquito is heard no 
more. Of insect life one hears little but the 
mellow drone of the bumble bee, the noontide 
chirk of the cricket and the husky rustle of the 
dragon fly’s gauzy wing. 
Unwise are the tent dwellers who have 
folded their canvas and departed to the shelter 
of more stable roof trees, for these are days 
that should be made the most of, days that have 
brought the perfected ripeness of the year and 
display it in the fullness of its glory. 
ARE KENNEL INTERESTS ADVANCINGl 
Relaxation from business cares leads many 
men to take up some hobby which, in nine cases 
out of ten, has in it some element of sport. A 
love for the gun naturally leads to the owner¬ 
ship of a dog, and the possession of one often 
paves the way for another, until the kennel is 
formed. Then the breeding that necessarily fol¬ 
lows entails either the selling or giving away of 
the produce, their training for the field, and so 
on. All this is continually increasing from year 
to year; new kennels devoted to the breeding of 
high-class field dogs are cropping up in every 
direction, till the capital invested in field dogs 
must be treble that of a few years ago. 
The English setter has long held the first 
position in the minds of many sportsmen, but 
the signs of the times show that the pointer is 
also receiving that care and attention at their 
hands which their fine qualities entitle them to. 
The success of the pointer in the trials last year 
was very marked. 
Specialty clubs have been formed within the 
past few years devoted to the improvement of 
the several breeds they are interested in. The 
Irish and Gordon setter clubs are working hard 
to bring their favorites prominently to the notice 
of sportsmen, and to induce them to lay out 
money for their proper education for the field. 
The present year has seen the largest and 
most successful dog shows ever held in this 
country. With few exceptions and contrary to 
past experience, the show committees have been 
able to show a balance on the right side. This 
is due to a great extent to the increased interest 
taken by the public in dogs. The daily papers 
have devoted columns of space to chronicle the 
merits of the exhibition in their towns, and have 
educated the general public to a desire to see 
what a good dog looks like. In former years 
the shows would generally have been passed 
over with a brief paragraph. 
A PHASE OF IMAGINATION. 
Imagination is a great thing. The big bull¬ 
frog in the swamp does not bellow jug o’ rum, 
jug o’ rum, though a ready imagination may help 
the hearer so to understand him. A shooting- 
trip or fishing excursion does not involve a bout 
with a jug o’ rum, though the fermented imagi¬ 
nation of newspaper reporters often so con¬ 
strues it. This might be amusing if it were not 
disgusting. Indeed, it is an affront to the ever¬ 
growing fraternity of sportsmen and a gross 
injustice because it misrepresents them before 
the public. These bottle-guzzling yarns of shoot¬ 
ing and fishing parties are confined to the columns 
of the lower grade papers of the lay press; they 
are not to be found in a journal like Forest and 
Stream, which aims intelligently, truthfully and 
sympathetically to represent and speak for sports¬ 
men. 
When one is recording personal experience 
or observation or opinion, it is always better to 
use the pronoun I than the term "the writer,” 
or "ye scribe,’’ or "yours truly,” or ‘‘your hum¬ 
ble servant.” Just plain everyday I is best. 
8 ? 
Many a man who cares nothing for shoot¬ 
ing and who affects rather to despise your hunt¬ 
ing dog is glad enough to share the game that 
dog helps to provide. 
The Woeds-loafer’s Dream. 
BY A. L. L. 
Once on a time there lived a shiftless wight. 
And anything like labor he would shirk; 
With rod and gun he spent his precious hours, 
And would much rather hunt or fish than work. 
One sultry day while strolling through the woods, 
He laid him down beside a babbling stream; 
Being' o’ercome with lassitude and heat, 
He soon dropped off in sleep and dreamed a dream 
The dream he had was not the common kind, 
Composed of lots of foolish stuff all blent. 
But ’twas a one that mortals sometimes have— 
He dreamed he died, and off to heaven he went. 
The realm he was transported to seemed bright. 
While strolling there and looking all around; 
The sights he saw there filled him with delight — 
That heaven was “the Happy Hunting Ground.” 
He dreamed the sun shone from an azure sky, 
And fleecing golden clouds were floating there. 
Warm zephyrs soft were wafted o’er the land, 
While clear and springlike was the ambient air. 
He saw green meadows gaylv decked with flowers, 
The silvery streamlet sang a low, sweet tune, 
And warbling birds were flitting ’ntong the trees, 
And everything seemed like a day in June. 
And lakes were there, and hosts of waterfowl. 
As large and tame as any one could wish, 
Some flying o’er, some floating on the waves, 
While underneath swam schools of monstrous fish. 
And in that land were scores of rabbits seen, 
And flocks of quail--that handsome gamy bird; 
Gray squirrels large were sporting ’mong the trees. 
While from each thicket many a pheasant whirred. 
Off on the hillsides roamed great herds of deer. 
And in the woods big elk and moose were seen. 
And bears -were there, raccoons and ’possums fat, 
While turkeys flocked ’mong trees of living green. 
And there he lay beside tbe babbling brook, 
In dreamy bliss until the sun’s last beam 
Was gone, and then from that supremely happy state 
He woke — and sadly found ’twas but a dream. 
