514 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Oct. 25, 1913. 
It Pays To Advertise When What You Advertise Is Worth Paying For 
This is what Mr. Ault writes from away up in Saskatchewan : 
"Seeing your ad. about a 16-year-old boy hitting 16 out of 25 
clay pigeons, I thought that you might appreciate the first day’s 
work with your 20-gauge. 
I have been shooting a 12-gauge-for the last 12 years, 
but when I saw your 20-gauge, 28-inch barrel, I persuaded the 
owner to sell it to me, and it is the sweetest shooting gun I ever 
put to my face. For close killing it can’t be beat, and for long 
range, I tested it up to 87 steps on a chicken, and it killed the 
bird dead. It stayed right there, and on long shots I stopped 
them as far as I wanted to, killing them after the two- 
that I was out with had quit. My-is for sale. I killed 
one duck that I think must have been near a hundred yards. 
What I like about it is, that all the birds that I hit I kill.” 
D. V. AULT, Box 65, North Battleford, Sask. 
Perhaps there is some other man who will see this advertisement and will take advantage of another man’s 
experience and at least try the Stevens No. 200, 20-gauge, 5-shot Repeating Shotgun. It shoots close—it 
hits hard—it’s light and compact—it does the business. Write to-day for our beautiful illustrated catalog 
describing in detail our complete line of Rifles, Shotguns, Pistols and Rifle Telescopes. 
J. STEVENS ARMS & TOOL COMPANY 
Largest Makers Sporting Firearms in the World 324 Main Street, Chicopee Falls, Mass. 
Memoirs and Remarks of a Retired Hunting Arrow 
J UST where I grew I cannot tell, but it is 
very likely that it was along the river bot¬ 
toms of the Rocky, a little mountain stream 
very near to the mathematical center of the Old 
Volunteer State. 
It is known, however, that about eight years 
ago I and my eleven brothers were found by the 
river road encased in a billet of spoke timber by 
a carpenter, who also ’tended a small water 
power grist mill by the River Rocky. It was 
in this mill that my present owner found me— 
or us. It might be said that he was fond of 
going to this little mill just as his father and 
father’s father before him. Another reason was 
that while his “turn" was being ground, he liked to 
walk out on the tottery old dam and drop a 
hook into the clear pool below, just to see if 
some of the big lazy mountain trout would 
actually bite. 
“What a fine piece of hickory,” remarked 
my future owner, whom I will call “the archer.” 
“The grain is so straight and large,” he mused, 
seeing good arrows in the stick just as Michael 
Angelo saw the angel in a block of marble. 
“Yes, suh, I picked it up mighty nigh a year 
ago,” said the miller, erstwhile carpenter, “ ’tend¬ 
ing to make me a good axe handle outen it,” he 
shouted in order to J)e heard above the din of 
flying wheels and falling waters. 
“How many shafts the size of a big lead 
By EUCLID D. MILLER 
pencil can you get out of this stick?” asked the 
archer, pulling off a white splinter and tying it 
into knots. 
“Oh, ’bout a dozen, I reckon.” 
Smooth, straight and shiny, we were de¬ 
livered to the archer, who had white gander 
wing feathers ready drawn and fixed for us. A 
retired cross-cut saw yielded a dozen fine steel 
broadheads, which were destined to fly many a 
mile, propelled by a fifty-pound English long 
bow. However, we were a little too heavy and 
clumsy for this bow at first, so we were worked 
down a little at the ends, i. e., barreled. To 
further reduce weight, our steel blades were 
ground shorter and sharper, while three were 
taken off and replaced with iron tubes or thim¬ 
bles, just the weight of the broadheads. We 
were refledged with lower and longer feathers, 
set slightly spiral, but this process did not sacri¬ 
fice our stiffness or strength to any appreciable 
amount, and did much to improve us both in 
beauty and in balance. The whole set received 
a number of coats of fine rod varnish from time 
to time, which was well worth while, as some 
of us were used to shoot frogs and fish occas¬ 
ionally. This was hard on feathers, but they 
had been carefully glued on and then wrapped 
with silk, like most old English war and hunt¬ 
ing arrows, and varnished over all. The feath¬ 
ers never came loose, but simply wore off, and 
had to be replaced at intervals. This shows how 
much service we arrows did, and how careful 
the archer was to keep from losing us. I will 
speak of losing, or rather not losing arrows 
later on. 
As I’m the last one of the dozen, I will 
begin my history of the quiver by saying that 
a bullfrog made away with the first arrow to 
be lost. The arrow apparently struck the big 
old frog through the ham or foot and drove 
into a bed of round gravel and didn’t stick up. 
Mr. Frog upon finding himself speared with this 
strange silent feathered thing, proceeded to do 
the “wiggley-wiggle,” or the “grizzly-gallop” and 
vanished, arrow and all, into the deepest pool. 
Although the archer stripped and searched up 
and down the creek, the arrow could not be 
found. On this trip, however, the archer got 
more game than another youngster armed with 
a .22 rifle—fifteen frogs, a squirrel, not to men¬ 
tion a couple of snakes, and a good shot at a 
rabbit, but lost two arrows, the fine hickory the 
frog captured, and a first-class cane arrow. This 
cane arrow was an experiment. It had a re¬ 
markably low steady flight and could take any 
amount of raps. It caused the archer to make 
up a duplicate set, but the cane or reed was no 
good, and thus a lot of work and patient wait¬ 
ing went for naught. 
