FOREST AND STREAM 
622 
Published Weekly by the 
Forest and Stream Publishing Company 
Chas. A. Hazen, President Charles L. Wise, Treasurer 
W. G. Beecroft, Secretary Russell A. Lewis, Gen. Mgr. 
22 Thames Street, New York. 
CORRESPONDENCE:—Forest and Stream is the re¬ 
cognized 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 OBJECT OF THIS JOURNAL 
will be to studiously promote a healthful interest 
in outdoor recreation, and to cultivate a refined 
taste for natural objects. 
—Forest and Stream, Aug. 14, 1873 
DEATH OF A FAMOUS CHEYENNE. 
Last month there died at Watonga, in Okla¬ 
homa, a Cheyenne Indian named Big Baby. By 
his death was broken a link which connected the 
present with one of the most important happen¬ 
ings among the plains Indians many years ago. 
In the year 1830 in a great battle between the 
Pawnee and Cheyenne Indians, the Pawnees cap¬ 
tured the medicine arrows, the most important 
protective charm which the Cheyennes possessed. 
No greater misfortune could have happened to 
them than the loss of the medicine arrows, and 
for many months there was lamentation and 
weeping in the tribe and desperate plans were 
made for the recovery of the medicine arrows. 
Efforts were made toward peace with the Paw¬ 
nees, and at least one friendly visit was made 
them by the Cheyennes, who begged them to re¬ 
turn these sacred objects. To the Pawnees the 
medicine arrows were merely a trophy, but they 
recognized that these arrows possessed some 
sacred potency which they did not understand. 
About two years after the capture of the ar¬ 
rows, a large party of Pawnees went to the 
Cheyennes, carrying one of the arrows, and 
among these Pawnees was a young man named 
Otter Cap—still talked of among the older Chey¬ 
ennes as the best dancer ever seen in the Chey¬ 
enne camp. 
During the stay of the Pawnees in the Chey¬ 
enne camp Otter Cap fell in love with a Cheyenne 
girl, and instead of returning with his people to 
their dirt lodges when they went home, he re¬ 
mained with the Cheyennes. Big Baby was his 
child, said to have been born eighty-one years 
ago. Big Baby grew up to be an important man 
of the Cheyenne tribe, a good warrior, a medicine 
man, and highly respected among his people. 
The number of those who knew about these 
ancient happenings on the plains grows fewer 
and fewer, and there is left now no record of 
this past except the scanty printed accounts, some 
of which have been received from the lips of 
men who took part in this great fight in 1830. 
THE ENTHUSIAST AND THE SHEDDER 
CRAB. 
Faint rumblings from the Jersey Coast, like 
unto the pumping of the Drum as he beats his 
way up and down Broad River, have developed 
into a thunderous protest over our editorial com¬ 
parison between the salt and fresh water fisher¬ 
man. Some protests were as gentle as a walton- 
ian cast, others as vehement’ as only the fisher¬ 
man of the breakers can defend his favorite 
sport. Weakly we protest we spoke not of the 
stripper, channel bass surf angler, but of the 
chummer and still boat fisherman, he, who calls 
it a day’s work only when the boat is full or, he 
perhaps, is in the same condition. Patience and 
skill beget love or perhaps are born of love of 
the game of surf angling, and we gladly give our 
Asbury Park, as well as our other surf fishing 
friends, due credit as waltonian exponents par 
excellence, when we learn of an instance of a 
shedder crab caster who fished night and day, as 
often as business would permit, only to get one 
stripper in a whole season, and on Decoration 
Day, generally accepted as opening day on Jersey 
Coast, this angler will begin again the quest of 
the gamy stripper—this surely is angling, not for 
fish but for fun. All of which recalls a heart 
interest, though pathetic, case of the inherent love 
of the sport of surf fishing. Last year, at Asbury, 
Captain Nameunmentioned who, at the age of 
ninety-seven, and after forty years of surf fish¬ 
ing, decided he must have one more day on the 
beach before he passed on. He joined the boys 
in the early morning. A soap -box was fixed for 
him on which he sat patiently for many long 
hours. His pals baited and cast for him, for his 
days of making the long cast were over. Toward 
early afternoon the old angler reeled up for 
home—the boys all wound up and accompanied 
the veteran back to the train. On the way the 
grizzled and tottering old veteran confided in the 
fraternity that he had prayed the entire day that 
he would not hook a stripper, as he knew the 
shock would perhaps prove fatal to his slow 
beating heart. This one example convinces us 
that he of the shedder crab is entitled to a place 
along side the gentle caster of the stream. 
TRAPSHOOTING ULTIMATELY FOR ALL. 
Have you ever stopped to realize that eventu¬ 
ally the only scatter gun shooting available will 
be on scaling discs of the traps? This seems like 
a sweeping statement, and, may not come true 
during your time or mine, but, it is bound to 
prove up, within a few years. We will allow that 
the different states and the Federal Government 
as well as private individuals, will develop game 
preserves here, there and elsewhere, which, for 
a few years will furnish shooting, but what must 
happen as time goes on? As villages grow into 
cities and commerce spreads over its smoky fac¬ 
tories, game must be driven back, further back 
until finally, and at no distant future, Northern 
Canada, Newfoundland and remote dominions 
will offer the only public shooting grounds and 
likely, even here land owners will post their 
property. Private, state and Federal preserves will 
be surrounded by cities so that shooting therein 
will compare favorably to a day in Central Park, 
New York City. Then, as the population in¬ 
creases and demands more play space, shooting 
will be prohibited—a dream you say—yes, for 
the present, but a glance over the history of New 
York City, when shooting at Canal street and 
Broadway was all that could be desired, is at 
least a premonition of evil to the hunter. The 
outlet for the animal spirit of man, who was 
born destructive, starting perhaps on the family 
clock, lies in clay bird shooting—something to 
“kill” that require skill to “kill” it, and, ^hat may 
be shot on the roof, or in any vacant lot. This 
sport is man’s play and not for the dub. It makes 
for life outdoors, steadies the nerves, gives con¬ 
trol and, all in all, is a pleasure that should be 
sought by the man fond of his gun. Eventually 
we all must shoot clay birds, or perhaps some 
new development in artificial targets—or not 
shoot at all. To steal a line from a clever adver¬ 
tiser—“Eventually, why not now?” 
DEFENDS GOVERNOR GLYNN. 
Last week we published a letter from a sub¬ 
scriber at Schuylerville, N. Y. This week ap¬ 
pears an explanation from the New York State 
Conservation Commission. Investigation proves 
that the gentleman from Schuylerville deserved 
even more than he got, and that the Conserva¬ 
tion Commission deserves an apology from said 
Schuylervillian. We ask that you all read the let¬ 
ter from Commissioner Moore in this issue— 
Let’s hope the good work in showing up law vio¬ 
lators will continue. 
THE SENATE AND McLEAN APPROPRIA¬ 
TION. 
We hope it only is an idle rumor, but should it 
be true that the Senate refuse the $100,000 for 
the enforcement of the migratory bird law, there 
can be only one inference—which is that the 
market hunter has “got to” the Senate. 
Tell your senator to give you a fair shake, and 
if he doesn't, elect a new one next election. If 
Kansas spring shooters can upset the migratory 
bird law, demanded by all high minded sports¬ 
men, we need a number of real legislators in 
Washington. 
LOOKING BACKWARD. 
By Gordon Johnstone. 
I must go back, I’m longing for the west, 
The yellow plains wind-swept by airy brooms, 
The mountains purpling from their hocks to crest, 
The skies white-shot with drifting cotton blooms, 
The vast receding distances of red 
Where God himself might walk with stately 
tread. 
I’m tethered here, my thoughts a-dwindling all 
Like poppies shrinking in the blinding glare, 
Or twilight dying on a ’dobe wall, 
Or gray stars fainting on the morning air, 
Oh, I would feel the night’s cool moist embrace 
And find myself the kin of stars and space. 
I must go back and range the open earth, 
The Eden of the hills, the desert stark, 
There is no day of this existence worth 
A breath of sage-brush trodden in the dark, 
But there—out there—I’d stand, nor kneel nor 
bend, 
And call the ever-living God my friend. 
