FOREST AND STREAM 
613 
He was right, for we killed a mottled-back with 
ten buzzers and the button that we did not push! 
All hands had coon meat at the post the next 
day. The young ones were fine, and the Swedes 
didn’t know the difference, so we gave 'them the 
she-coon, telling them it was fashionable in 
America to eat game that tasted out of the way, 
or “high”—except we did not use that word, 
exactly. 
Spot’s ears, after his mixup with that ring-tail, 
resembled the tassels on a window shade in the 
“best” room. Also, he was a little shy on lip. 
Spot was all right! 
’Lige said he never wore shoes “ ’till cold 
weather.” When the ice froze in the water 
bucket at night I thought it was cold, but ’Lige 
showed up calm and serene, and we went hunt¬ 
ing again. I think he was a subconcious fatalist 
(I don’t know what that is, but it listens well) 
and at one time he had been struck by, or with, 
religion, at one of the fervid trance-throwing 
sessions of the ’sociation. I went there two days, 
but outside of the muscular Christianity there 
displayed, and the popular hymn, “Oh, by-y-y-ee 
this time, ’nother ye-e-e-ea-rrrrr, I sha-a-1111 beee, 
in some lonely grave yard, Oh Lord, how lo-o-o- 
onnggggg?” I fear that the session did not sink 
into my cerebellum as it should. Is that correct, 
doctor. Oh, yes, one of the discourses was on 
“Animias and Sifias.” It was a strong subject. 
Col. Roosevelt ought to get shorthand notes on 
that sermon for his famous club. 
The cabin, which ’Lige and his aunt occupied 
was the usual one for such a locality, except 
that the inherent sensibilities of the man had 
led him to choose a spot of exquisite beauty, and 
seeing that I enjoyed and appreciated the gran¬ 
deur of his mountains and the splendor of his 
sunsets, he casually remarked, “Hit sure do look 
pretty as a picture!” Many a rhapsody of men 
better educated, and having a flow of English 
like the plunge of Niagara, has not pleased me 
more than that homely utterance. 
After his explanation of the fixing of the north 
star by the “sot stakes” system, I ceased to talk 
about the world outside. A man who could de¬ 
capitate a hidden quail at thirty yards with an 
open-sighted rifle was not to be argued out of 
a little thing like the revolution of the earth and 
the movements of the stars. Perhaps there were 
other reasons. Who knows? 
I never hunted or fished with a man who said 
less and saw more than did ’Lige. He never 
missed a thing with eye or rifle. The goings and 
comings of the wild folk, their tragedies and 
triumphs, were as plain to him as a printed page. 
The big fellow and I were riding homeward 
one dark night on the mules he owned, but sel¬ 
dom used, except as saddle animals. Some play¬ 
ful native in the hey-day of his exuberance (plus 
some moon-shine that did not come from Luna, 
though it was pale), had killed a rattler, and 
then had curled the remains up right in the nar¬ 
row woods trail we were traversing. Getting a 
whiff of the defunct reptile, ’Lige’s mule went 
by the right flank, while mine deployed to the 
left and got in touch with a “support” in the 
shape of a big beech limb. I was left like 
Absalom, son of King David, only it was not 
my hair, but the region of digestion and as¬ 
similation, that caught the jar. I mention this 
as an episode, and not as an event. 
The Swedes were characters. They could talk 
American—after a fashion—but the general line 
of their conversation sounded like the remarks 
a man tries to make after his first green persim¬ 
mon has got to going about right. As Lsaid some 
time back, our “dining” room was close to na¬ 
ture, and wild honey being one of the pieces de 
resistance three times a day, the deer and other 
flies, the wild bees, yellow jackets, hornets and 
grasshoppers, naturally boarded with us, and when 
not stuck in the honey, were fast in what passes 
for butter. Now, as every Arms and the Man 
reader knows, the bald hornet is about the 
Bennington, Vt., March 27, 1914. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
I propound to you and the readers of Forest 
and Stream this question: Is sentiment in favor 
of our wild life, an emotion for which a strong, 
red-blooded man should be ashamed? Is it a sign 
of human weakness or effeminacy? If not, why 
not openly confess it occasionally? 
In my time I have heard and read about five 
hundred speeches and appeals for wild life that 
were truly worthy. Almost invariably these have 
been addressed wholly to man’s business instincts 
or his purse, his sporting proclivities, his love of 
fair play, his self-preservation, his selfish needs 
and his public spirit, but I never heard but one 
strong man come out in the open and confess his 
true sentiment for our birds and plead for them 
on that ground. And, after all, I think his words 
are worth all the others combined. Why may this 
not be so? Aside from the economic value of the 
birds, are not their ways and movements among 
the most interesting and beautiful phenomena of 
nature? 
Spring is at last upon us. Yes, I know it is 
here because I have just this moment been listen¬ 
ing to that beautiful liquid melody of the robin. 
He is in a high tree top nearby, pouring out his 
soul in song as though he would burst his little 
throat with gladness. I have also seen two blue 
birds, a thrush and a song sparrow. They all 
seemed full of glee and very tame. Where did 
they come from, and what a welcome harbinger! 
If these manifestations of nature’s movements 
cannot provoke a little sentiment in the breast of 
a strong man, then, indeed, his soul is dead. And 
to think that any thoughtful person on earth 
should wantonly destroy these little creatures 
who come to our very doors in spring; eat crumbs 
from our hands with seeming gratitude; sing to 
us their cheerful notes and are constantly busy 
destroying our enemies the insect pests, simply 
passes human reason. 
Back in the old Green Mountains, where the 
wild denizens have lived amid snow and ice over 
four feet deep since last November, things have 
begun to move this week. The snow is going 
fast—the warm rain and south winds are getting 
in their work in aid of the deer, grouse, fox, hare, 
squirrel and their kind. Back there it has been 
a mighty struggle and a case of the survival of 
the strongest. There has been nearly four months 
of famishing times, and the strong fell upon the 
weak for self-preservation. It is the way of 
niftiest fielder in the Bush league. He “just eats 
flies up” (to borrow a truism—-for once—from 
the sporting editor). He takes ’em wherever they 
come—high, low, Jack and the game, and he will 
even follow them to the “plate.” That’s just 
what he did at our camp! 
A bug is just a bug to the Swedish man. Over 
in his country, the climate is so “cold storage,” 
I am informed, that the bug crop is not what it 
would be under better climatic conditions. One 
noon, a fly or two extra had mired in the butter, 
when in flew a big bald hornet. Lars made a 
(Continued on page 621.) 
nature. My visits have shown that the deer, 
grouse and rabbit have suffered from their natu¬ 
ral enemies. The great horned owl, the fox, the 
mink and the bob-cat have demanded their toll of 
lives. Two little chaps, however, I have always 
found cheerful and friendly during these trying 
times—the chickadee and the red squirrel. Noth¬ 
ing seems to daunt them. But all this dull and 
dreary winter season will now soon pass away, 
and then the birds will be with us in numbers to 
brighten our lives. Our Green Mountain Club 
expects to complete a long trail on the top of the 
mountains from Mt. Greylock in Massachusetts 
to the Canadian line this summer. When this is 
finished we invite you and all Forest and Stream 
readers to visit us and we will show you some¬ 
thing interesting to arouse a little nature senti¬ 
ment in your bosoms. 
Now for that sentimental speech. It was de¬ 
livered in the United States Senate by Senator 
McLean of Connecticut on the plumage bill, and 
I tell you it is a classic. 
“I have not touched personally upon the ethics 
involved in this question, but it is now and always 
has been my belief that sentiment has done more 
for civilization than money, and when the money 
is tainted, as that in the plumage trade is tainted, 
with unspeakable cruelty if not crime, I am sure 
every member of this great body will find excuses, 
if not admiration and approval, for the sentiment 
which cries out against this butchery and the 
fashion which sustains it. * * It may be a 
weakness, sir, but when the birds fail to come to 
my door in the spring, you can have the door and 
the spring, too, for neither of them will interest 
me. It may be thought by some that the subject 
is a trivial one, and that it ought not to be inter¬ 
jected into the United States Senate when so 
many matters of vital importance are pressing for 
consideration. My excuses for pleading the cause 
of the birds are two. First, I want their case 
tried and justice done to them for their own 
sake; second, I want the birds saved before we 
as a great people learn by experience that the 
birds are more vital to our comfort and happiness 
than we are to theirs.” 
Nature lovers, cut out this little paragraph con¬ 
taining Senator McLean’s words and paste it in 
our hat. That’s what I am going to do with it, 
and upon any and all occasions do not be afraid 
to acknowledge that you are inspired by the same 
motives which led this big statesman to make his 
famous fight for the birds. 
A Little Nature Sentiment 
By Henry Chase. 
