Feb. 22, 1913 
FOREST AND STREAM 
231 
Louis Akin Nature Lover 
By ROBERT L. WARNER 
it. Wall, sell, de bear he was ketch me lion 
nia shoulder an’ was jes’ reddee for mash me 
wid udder paw of it. w’en Bots she begin to 
bodder de cubs; den de ole she bear wid haw¬ 
ful roar turn roun’ an' go fur Bots. Den Bots 
he was mak’ beeg rush for de bear hin’ parts 
an’ dis give me tarn’ for fin’ out ah’l was not 
be kill’, jes’ almos’, an’ ah pull hout ma beeg 
knife an’ when Bots was tak’ care of de been 
hin front of heeself, ah’l git up close an’ stick 
ma knife ’bout foot long into de beas’ side an’ 
she was tumble over hon de groun’.” 
“Was she dead then, Xavier?” 
“Non, ma fren’, he was not be verry dead, 
dat tarn. Bots an’ maself was very bizzee 
peeps for ’bout t’ree-quarter hour, an’ eet was 
question wid Bots wedder w’ich was goiiv he 
dead duck betwixt of it. But ah'l was git good 
chance for stick ma knife hon de bear t'roat 
an’ heart nine or seven times, an’ she was mak' 
up her min’ she better t’row up de sponge. Ah’l 
was holler for Joe an’ holler, an’ holler, an’ 
bamby he was come, an’ we was try for mak’ 
up some plan for git de bear home, an’ tak care 
de cubs. Joe he was keep de cubs, w’at he was’ 
not heat, till he was beeg bear.” 
“Was that the only bear hunt that you e.x- 
perienced on that visit to Mississippi, Xavier ?” 
“Ah’l was have two t'ree more beeg hunt, 
but ah’l mils’ go naow, for hoi’ woman he was 
wait for me h’over to Joe Swop’s. Ah’l mus' 
tell ’bout dat some nudder tarn.” 
So, lighting his pipe and taking a twist 
with the red worsted “comforter” around his 
neck, Xavier took a reluctant departure. 
Noose in New Zealand. 
Wellington, New Zealand, Dec. 13 . —Editor 
Forest and Stream: On the 24th of February, 
1910, I wrote you with reference to the moose 
liberated in New Zealand about twelve years 
ago, and mentioned that another shipment, con¬ 
sisting of four stags and six hinds, were being- 
landed and would be liberated in the Fiordland 
National Park on the west coast of New Zea¬ 
land. 
As I know you are interested in the accli¬ 
matization of these animals, I inclose, for your 
information, extract from a newspaper report 
dated 2d instant with reference to these animals: 
“There is reason to believe that the moose 
liberated on the West Coast Fiord district are 
thriving and breeding. A member of the mining- 
party which visited Dusky Sound on Friday told 
a Southland Times reporter that at Supper Cove 
they found the clearest traces of the moose. 
They were keenly interested to observe fresh 
marks of the cloven hoofs of the moose, which 
could not have been more than ten days old, and 
among the larger impressions smaller replicas 
were distinctly visible, showing that at least one 
calf was with the older beasts. This is the 
latest evidence supplied of the success of the 
attempt made to acclimatize the moose, and 
sportsmen will be keenly interested to learn that 
the animals seem to be doing well in their new 
home.” B. i\I. Wilson. 
We like to receive brief letters from our 
subscribers telling of their exploits with rod and 
gun. 
J AN. 2, at Flagstafif, Arizona, died a man 
than whom no more passionate lover of 
nature ever lived. 
Thirty-two years ago come this spring, in 
the side yard of a tiny home at East Portland, 
Oregon, a small boy laid out upon the grass a 
row of brook trout which he had inveigled from 
the waters of Tyan’s Brook during the long 
hours since daylight. Nellie Matlock, the little 
girl next door, stood on tip toes, with her 
chin between the pickets of the fence, to ad- 
LOUIS AKIN. 
mire the catch, and said: “Do you know Louis 
Akin? He is lots of fun and he just loves to 
go trout fishing.” 
I promptly hunted up Louis Akin, and three 
days later we played hooky for the first time 
to go trout fishing. We had played hooky off 
and on nearly ever since. I was planning to 
break away again with him in February for a 
few days upon his return to New York, when 
the wires flashed to me the dreadful news that 
he had laid down his brushes for the last time. 
A thousand camp-fires glimmer through the 
years, and through the smoke of each I see his 
face! In Maine, in British Columbia, Oregon. 
Washington—a background ot' forests, streams, 
glaciers and frozen peaks. 
Very young an orphan, he had been buffeted 
by fortune, but took all blows cheerfully. Con¬ 
temptuous from the start of conventions and 
civilization, a passionate lover of the wild, he 
would go unaccompanied, save by dog or cat, 
into the primeval wilderness of Washington and 
remain i)erfectly happy without ' company for 
months at a time, trapping, e.xploring, paint¬ 
ing. ile was never alone in the wild, for every¬ 
thing alive about him out of doors afforded him 
company. 
He had a strong vein of humor, and when 
no human friend was near, he had his joke upon 
the wild friends about him. I recall his hav¬ 
ing once arranged a little cage back of his 
cabin filled with strips of meat, and a door 
which he could lower with a thread from a dis¬ 
tance. I'hus he cauglit. one by one, the num¬ 
erous Canada jays which lived with him, and 
after painting all their legs a deep red, re¬ 
leased them. Thus he was able to identify them, 
and even twelve months later, upon returning 
again for his weeks of solitude in this remote 
spot, found his old friends there wearing their 
faded red leggings. He always had some such 
joke as this going on in camp. 
Beginning with the merest rudiments of an 
education, he lifted himself steadily up until, 
after man}' struggles he had won recognition 
as one of the foremost of American artists of 
the wild. Beginning as a mere lad in a sign 
writer’s shop at Portland, patiently and with 
painful slowness, he acquired the rudiments of 
his art, and aside from a short session one 
winter at the Chase Art School, New York, he 
was wholly self-educated. 
His art came from within rather than from 
without. It was truly an expression of his 
soul—his attempt to speak in colors of that 
which he saw and felt and loved about him 
everywhere in nature. 
He never was so much a hunter as a 
tracker, but always a great fisherman. I can 
see him now wading down the curving cap^ of 
a hundred streams. East and West, casting the 
fly. or bowed in adoration, kneeling to make 
Oriental obeisance as was our custom to the 
first ten-inch trout of the season. 
Always he made friends, both white and 
red. Whether it chanced to be the Lilooet of 
the Fraser River, the Passumquoddy of Maine, 
or the Hopi of the desert, it was always the 
same. The Indians always seemed to find in 
him a kindred spirit. lie saw nature with the 
eye of the. Indian. He would pick up a new 
Indian language with amazing rapidity, and was 
always teaching the Indians words from other 
tribes. In two weeks’ time, while sheep hunt¬ 
ing in the Fraser River cascades four years 
ago. he had taught Jack James of the Lilooets 
a good part of the Hopi language, and they 
were coi-istant!y flinging Hopi expressions at 
each other to the great amusement of old 
Napoleon, who- sat grimly by the fire, occasion¬ 
ally croaking with delight. 
One evening when we were about sixteen 
years old. he came over to my house with a 
copy of Forest and Stream. Said he: “Are 
you on to Forest and Stream ? This is the real 
thing.” Thereafter we took turns buying 
Forest and Stre.\m whenever we could spare 
the price, and ten-cent pieces were none too 
plentiful with either of us in those days. 
During the last ten years of his life he had 
