232 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Feb. 22, 1913 
come into the full possession of his artistic 
powers. While he did well everything in nature, 
he found his best expression in the mountains 
and the desert and the life of the Indian. 
Recognition of this fact had inspired the trus¬ 
tees of the American Museum of Natural His¬ 
tory to commission him two years agoi to paint 
the mural decorations for the new Indian wing 
of the Museum. Upon this work he had been 
engaged in Arizona since the spring of 1911, 
and his preliminary sketches were nearly ready 
for exhibition at New York when he died. 
His many friends East and West are hopeful 
that these sketches will be preserved by the 
authorities of the museum, and committed tO' 
its walls in heroic size at the hands of some 
other competent artist. 
I quote from two out of many letters re- . 
ceived since his death. The first from one of 
his oldest chums, a surgeon in Oregon: 
“I shall hold fast to his virtues, and they 
were many. Long an orphan, he had his 
struggles. His talent for art and for making 
friends saved him from mediocrity. He 
seemed to me so different from anyone I ever 
knew, it is difficult for me to conceive such a 
character. It makes my heart ache to think of 
it all, and I wish I had written him oftener. It 
is nine years since I visited him at the Canon, 
spending a week on the brink, and he was the 
usual prince of good fellows.” 
And the second from the last friend who 
lived with him, a lawyer in Arizona: 
“He has done his last work, his palette 
and easel, his cases, his blankets and his In¬ 
dian trinkets are here before me in my big 
room as I write; his dog, his constant com¬ 
panion on his trips, is lounging here on his 
blanketed bed; a picture of himself, contentedly 
smoking a long pipe, looks down from his 
clothes closet (the picture done by an artist 
friend some time ago), but he will know them 
never again. The magic brush lies there in 
the' case, but the wizard hand now rests for¬ 
ever, and its deft and magic touch is gone. 
And thus, dear sir, it is. Thus hath Death dis¬ 
placed him from the world that was all too 
lacking in its estimation of his genius and his 
worth. My ideas of art are indeed crude, but 
not so that I could not recognize in our mutual 
friend a master indeed. Oft have I come and 
silently watched him as he worked, careful not 
to unduly disturb him, as that wonderful mind 
working intensely, strove to make the canvas 
repeat its picture. Then sinking back in his 
chair with his longshoreman’s pipe sending up 
wreaths of smoke, he would gaze intently to 
see what touch was missing, wherein the color 
blend was not just as he wanted it. If not satis¬ 
fied, he would plunge in again, working rapidly 
all the time, until the canvas satisfied him. Then 
he would relax, forget his art, and read some 
light magazine for recreation. 
“We can of course find countless reasons 
why he should have been spared, but futile all. 
It is our privilege to mourn, but the final rea¬ 
son yet all rests with Him who has given life 
and who has in this instance taken it away from 
one we loved. I am content to know and feel 
that he is at rest, that his soul is at peace; 
that he was not afraid to die; that whatever his 
faults, and I found them few, they were en¬ 
gulfed in the love he had toward his fellow 
man. Surely death cannot be the end of such 
a life; surely the grave is not its goal; and 
feeling thus, I can only say, ‘Farewell, dear 
friend, but only for a time, until we meet again 
before the God of us all, in whose charity we 
shall all dwell.’ ” 
Numerous private collections at New York, 
Chicago, San Francisco, Portland and in New 
England contain examples of his art. I cherish 
in my own home many of his sketches in pen 
and in oils, covering a period of twenty years 
—everyone breathing a breath of wild, and cul¬ 
minating with his masterpiece, “Jack’s Valley,” 
in a splendid canvas depicting a late afternoon 
view across this valley toward Jack’s Mountain 
and the glaciers, which flashed at right and 
left on the horizon—a very wonderful spot, the 
site of the furthest camping ground of our 
sheep hunt in 1909. 
“The forest lies a purple plain. 
Great glaciers gleam afar, 
The river, like a silver chain. 
Winds down by bend and bar.” 
As one stands and looks further and further 
away into the depths of this picture, one al¬ 
most feels the chill breath of the early moun¬ 
tain evening and the gripping stillness of the 
silent places. 
Now he has crossed the great divide. The 
desert he loved has received his ashes. Surely, 
somewhere, somewhen, we shall again ride 
forth with him, delighting in the melody of his 
rich baritone rising through the passes ahead 
of the pack train, and hear again his cheery 
voice beside the camp fire in the evening 
shadows. 
Beyond the loom of the last lone star, through outer 
darkness hurled, 
Further than rebel comet dared, or hiving star swarm 
swirled. 
Sits he with those who praise our God for that they 
loved ITis world. 
THE TOP RAIL. 
Redl.\nds, Cal., Jan. 18 .—Dear Grizzly King: 
I have heard and read a good many duck stories, 
but here is one from this morning’s Review that 
walks away with the bacon. What gets my goat 
is that the newspaper man tells it with such a 
straight face. He doesn’t even so much as 
“crack a smile.” Can you beat it? 
Reelfoot. 
San Bernardino, Cal.—Jan. 17.—The ice 
which covers the surface of Big Bear Valley 
Lake to a depth of five inches contains the 
bodies of thousands of wild duck and other 
fowl which were trapped while asleep when 
the recent cold snap struck the valley. 
A party composed of Jim Jeffries, Ira Clark, 
Charles Martin and Gus Knight returned to the 
valley yesterday after several weeks in the valley. 
They report much zero weather. The birds were 
frozen to death in coves where they had huddled. 
Local sportsmen are planning to cut the ice 
in blocks and pack the cold storage ducks for , 
shipment to the markets. ' 
“A STORY printed in the New York papers 
about two policemen who chased a collie dog 
out of Central Park and around several city 
blocks until they finally cornered it and shot 
it, because they thought it a wolf, escaped from 
the menageries,” said a friend of mine, “re¬ 
minds me of some experiences my grandfather 
had with wolves and dogs. ' 
“Grandfather was an English remittance 
man who was attempting the agricultural con- 1 
quest of the then northern Ontario from the 
vantage of a pigskin polo saddle at the time of 
his experience (the winter of 1860-61) about 
which I am writing. Returning, on horseback 
as usual, from the town of Barrie one winter 
night, he surprised quite a number of dogs by 
the roadside near his home, and thinking his 
own Scotch collie might be among them, he 
pulled up and gave the customary whistle. The 
‘dogs’ took to the woods in a hurry. Grand¬ 
father realized that he had whistled to a pack 
of wolves, and so, when next he was returning 
from town by moonlight, he carried a good 
English fowling piece loaded with buckshot 
across the saddle in front of him. 
“The wolves were surprised in approximate¬ 
ly the same place, at the edge of a cedar swamp. 
Grandfather fired both barrels of the gun, pick¬ 
ing a different wolf for each barrel and scored 
both times. One wolf was killed outright, but 
the other, hit behind, cried for all the world 
like a dog. Grandfather loaded up again and 
put it out of its misery; and then he found it 
was indeed a dog! Worse, it was his own valu¬ 
able and well-beloved collie that he had brought 
with him all the way from old England. And 
the other? It was a cur that belonged to the 
worst enemy my grandfather had, a neighbor 
who perpetually warred with him concerning a 
line fence which neither would allow the other 
to build. The court made my grandfather pay 
$100 for the cur. He had made the mistake of 
being loaded for wolves on a dog night.” 
He ^ ^ 
That reminds me of a bob-tailed collie we 
had on the farm when I was a boy. Pete was 
a terror to woodchucks, and he would whip any 
dog that came on the place. He was getting 
along in years at the time of which I am writ¬ 
ing, but what he lacked in agility he made up- 
in wisdom. 
One day in January a butcher came to our 
place to look at some sheep, and he brought in 
his sleigh a lanky young lemon and white pointer, 
the first bird dog I had ever seen. The pointer 
jumped out of the sleigh and Pete immediately 
gave chase. But it was no use, the pointer made 
rings around him on the hard crust of the snow- 
covered field to which they had repaired. The 
pointer seemingly considered it a great romp, 
but Pete was in deadly earnest. I knew what 
would happen if Pete once got hold of the pup. 
The chase continued while my father and 
the butcher were “putting up” the horse, and 
by the time they were ready to go to the sheep 
pens, Pete was “plumb tuckered,” and as angry 
as a dog could well be. He gave it up and I 
began to think the old dog was worsted for 
once. But not Pete. 
When the butcher was stooping over one of 
