FOREST AND STREAM 
Oct. 25, 1913. 
did 
Published Weekly by the 
Forest and Stream Publishing Company, 
Charles A. Hazen, President. 
W. G. Beecroft, Secretary. Charles L. Wise, 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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tions, respectively, within one year. Forms close Monday 
in advance of publication date. 
FORMS WILL CLOSE EARLY. 
Beginning with the issue of Nov. 8 Forest 
and Stream will go to press Tuesday instead of 
Wednesday. This means that last forms will 
close Monday instead of Tuesday, as at present. 
Correspondents and advertisers are asked to 
please keep this change in mind, for the good 
of the service. 
THE CAWS OF THE CROW. 
The cause of the crow at last has been 
taken up, not with a view to his extermination— 
perish the thought—but with the yet more glori¬ 
ous purpose of proving him an adjunct necessary 
to the farmer. Says the Department of Agricul¬ 
ture: After a careful study of the habits and 
the examination of a large number of crows’ 
stomachs, the Department experts have reached 
the conclusion that the crow consumes enough 
grasshoppers, cut worms, white grubs and other 
injurious insects to make him highly valuable to 
the farm. 
And so, at last, the farmer must take down 
the old hat, and the flapping cast-off coat, and 
in their place erect rookeries. The corn may be 
planted shallow, for the Government experts 
have implied that the loss of the seed corn is 
more than offset by the amount of cut worms, 
grasshoppers and grubs his crowship will destroy ; 
hut what does it profit a farmer if he gain a 
worm destroyer and loses his whole planting? 
Who shall say that the crow shall not soon be 
classed among song birds? 
THE TARIFF PLUMAGE PROVISION. 
The Tariff Bill, signed by the President on 
Oct. 3, 1913, which became a law immediately, 
contained the following provision: 
Provided, That the importation of aigrettes, 
egret plumes, or so-called osprey plumes, and 
the feathers, quills, heads, wings, tails, skins, or 
parts of skins, of wild birds, either raw or manu¬ 
factured and not for scientific or educational pur¬ 
poses, is hereby prohibited; but this provision 
shall not apply to the feathers or plumes of 
ostriches, or to the feathers or plumes of do¬ 
mestic fowls of any kind. 
The law seems painfully plain, as laid down 
in the above paragraph. It is so obvious that 
the permitting of importation of egrets on 
women’s hats appears on its face a direct viola¬ 
tion of the new law. Just what excuse the 
Customs Department offers for allowing women 
with head gear adorned with contraband goods 
to pass inspection, as is reported in the daily 
press, we do not know, unless it be “for educa¬ 
tional purposes’’—to educate those who have 
spent money and effort in the retention of the 
plumage paragraph in the agricultural bill; that 
there is a way of evading the law and vitiating 
its splendid intent. 
IT JUST HAPPENED SO. 
This assumption is that it happens so in 
every newspaper office, and in other offices for 
that matter, and in the world at large. A person 
is mentioned in conversation—he may be a thou¬ 
sand miles away—and the same day the mail 
brings a letter from him, the first one perhaps 
for months. Did the approaching letter by some 
occult influence prompt thought of its writer? 
No, for his name came up in a perfectly explica¬ 
ble way by suggestion, one thing leading to an¬ 
other and to reference to him. The only expla¬ 
nation is that it just happened so, and was a 
simple chance coincidence without mystery or 
meaning. Doubtless if such things were noted 
every person could record a goodly list of simi¬ 
lar occurrences which just happened so. And 
the recurrence of such chance conjunctions would 
go far to make one skeptical of there being any 
more significance than that of pure chance, when 
he was gravely told that a Yankee ship captain 
in a South Sea port had seen his wife in a vision 
on a certain night, it being the same night, as 
he learned months afterward, in which she died. 
Marvel and speculation in such cases are saved 
if the theory be accepted that it just happened so. 
In the course of a desultory browsing among 
the book shelves the other night there was picked 
up a scrapbook, in which, among other contents 
clipped from newspapers, was a collection of 
poems of heroism. One of the poems was James 
Whitcomb Riley’s “Had a Hare-Lip,” describing 
how, when the bridge gave way at a great bap¬ 
tizing, hare-lip Jonev had ’saved thirteen lives 
and sacrificed his own : 
Had a hare-lip, Joney did, 
Folks ’at filed apast all knowed it; 
Them ’at used to smile looked sad, 
But ef he thought good er bad, 
He kep’ still and never showed it; 
’Druther have that mouth all pouted 
And split up, and like it wuz, 
Than the ones ’at laughed about it, 
Purty is as purty does! 
It just happened so that the next book taken 
up was Lloyd’s “Field Sports of the North of 
Europe,” which opened to a chapter on hare 
shooting, and to a page on which it was related 
that after the killing of the hare “a singular 
operation was now performed ; the head of the 
hare, with the exception of the ears, which re¬ 
mained attached to the skin, was severed with 
a knife from the body. The only reason I could 
ever hear alleged for this most strange custom, 
which is universally adopted throughout Sweden,” 
Lloyd relates, “was that if a woman about to 
become a mother were to see the head of the 
animal, her offspring would inevitably have a 
hare-lip.” 
In the evening paper the other night was a 
note saying that the name of the horse chestnut 
was given because of the fact that at the point 
of the branch, where the leaf stalk has fallen, 
there is “a very perfect representation on the 
bark of a horseshoe, the nails being evenly and 
distinctly marked on each side.” 
The newspaper having been laid down, Canon 
Ellacombe’s book, “In a Gloucestershire Garden,” 
was taken up, and this was what confronted the 
eye: “One of the first trees to put on autumnal 
colors and to drop its leaves is the horse chest¬ 
nut. In some seasons 'they take the color of 
old gold, and when they fall, a curious horseshoe 
mark at the junction of the leaf with the branch 
is so distinct that it is not surprising some should 
think the name of the tree was derived from that, 
with which, however, it has no connection.” It 
just happened so. 
FRANK F. GLEZEN. 
Providence, R. I., Oct. 18.— Editor Forest 
and Stream: I thought you might wish to pub¬ 
lish in Forest and Stream the inclosed brief 
notice of the late Frank F. Glezen, who was well 
known to many of your readers. Even within 
twenty-four hours of his death, his widow in¬ 
forms me that he was much interested and com¬ 
forted by the reading of articles from Forest 
and Stream by her. Such a statement is very 
touching, and brings forcibly to mind that to 
the readers of your paper there is never a “close 
season”; and like the soldier of old, the shut-in 
sportsman mentally shoulders his gun and enjoys 
anew the pleasures afield when he reads the in¬ 
teresting details of such sports in Forest and 
Stream. Fenner H. Peckham. 
Frank L. Glezen died at Providence, R. I., 
Sept. 28, 1913, after a protracted illness from 
spinal disease. Mr. Glezen was a life long resi¬ 
dent of Providence, was a very enthusiastic 
sportsman and had hunted large and small game 
throughout the United States and Canada with 
much success. Even after physical infirmities 
had curtailed his activities, he retained his in¬ 
terests in field snorts. He was among the earliest 
subscribers to Forest and Stream, and its perusal 
was of great comfort and entertainment, even to 
the last days of his life Mr. Glezen was a most 
delightful companion afield, of a genial, generous 
disposition, and made many friends, who sin¬ 
cerely regret his demise. 
Winter Woods. 
BY ROBERT PAGE LINCOLN. 
Clustered pine boughs swaying low 
’Neath the wealth of dainty snow, 
White-capped branches everywhere, 
Balsam, pine and stately fir. 
Oh, what joy to wander here 
’Mid the scenes I love so dear. 
Soft winds sigh and gently murmur. 
Dark pines stir with scarce a tremor, 
Rich snow glitters silent white, 
Throwing back the sunbeams bright, 
Matchless diamonds in display 
On a charming winter day. 
Give me this contentment rare, 
Let me banish idle care, 
And once more breathe thankfully, 
That I’m happy, joyous, free. 
