692 
FOREST AND STREAM 
May 31, 1913 
Published Weekly by the 
Forest and Stream Pudlishing Company, 
Charles Otis, President. 
W. G. Beecroft, Secretary. W. J. Gallagher, Treasurer. 
127 Franklin Street, New York. 
CORRE.SPONDENCK — Forest and Stream is the 
recognized medium of entertainment, instruction and in¬ 
formation between American sportsmen. The editors 
invite communications on tbe 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 in¬ 
terest in outdoor recreation, and to cultivate 
a refined taste for natural objects. 
—Forest and Stream, Aug. 14, 1873. 
DO AMERICANS DIE FROM OVERWORK? 
The Billboard, America’s leading magazine 
devoted to things dramatic—and we say this 
with due credit to myriads of other publications 
that make up the firmament of literary dramatics 
—printed in a recent issue an editorial too good 
to be denied the outdoor man. Excepting for 
its Carnegieisms and its necessary lapses into 
the vernacular, it is identical with a thought that 
long has been on the verge of transfer from our 
incubator of thought to a more prominent place 
on paper; 
James Sterling said, “The deepest-rooted cause of 
American disease is that overworking of the brain and 
over-excitement of the nervous system, which are the 
necessary consequences of their intense activity—hence, 
nervous dyspepsia, with consumption, insanity and all 
its brood of fell disorders in its train. In a word, the 
American man works himself to death.” 
There is some truth in that sage observation, but 
it is mostly bunk. That worth-while Americans over¬ 
work as a rule, is true enuf, but that any appreciable 
number work themselves to death is untrue. 
Most of them get next to themselves coincidenTally 
with the first wallop that nature takes at them. There¬ 
after instead of “resting” over a high-ball or a beer in 
the smoke-laden bars or seeking their diversion from 
cards or an easy chair and a novel, they take to walks 
in the parks or country. Those that can afford it take 
up horseback riding or golf. Those that are light and 
lithe go in for tennis. But so long as it is exercise in 
the open air, it does not matter what form it takes. It 
is the oxygen, ozone and sunshine, together with the 
exercise (which must be diverting) that are important. 
These men, far from finding that they have to quit 
work, discover that their capacity is increast—that they 
are not only capable of greater output, but that it is 
better in quality. 
W’ork never killed anyone in America or anywhere 
else—nor does it bring on nervous dyspepsia, consump¬ 
tion, insanity, et al. W’orry does. And it is lack of 
exercise and recreation in the fresh air and sunshine that 
brings on worry. 
Work is a blessing. We are not sure that we know 
what a blessing is, but anyliow, work is one great big 
boon. 
THE AMATEUR FARMER. 
This is the season when the would-be 
humorist makes merry at the expense of the 
suburbanite. For it is the time of suburban 
gardening, which each year promises to double 
the crop yield of the world, and ends with a 
contribution of one broken hoe and four messes 
of lettuce salad and a bunch of stringy radishes. 
But the amateur agriculturist is neither to 
be laughed at nor pitied. True, his statistics 
never materialize, and his theories of intensive 
farming require considerable revision. His gain 
is in his labor, his triumph that of hope over 
experience. 
His cherished carnation seeds may produce 
spring onions, but then the asparagus bed is just 
as likely to yield lilies of the valley. It’s all 
one to him; he finds the useful beautiful and 
the beautiful useful. Best of all, he touches 
nature. 
All about the garden, just before breakfast, 
the world is full of life and song; in fact, life 
runs to song. A bird warbles in the tree near¬ 
by. He knows it is a thrush by the red throat 
and the gray breast streaked with brown. He, 
too, is filled with inspiration. For is not in¬ 
spiration a breathing in? And is he not drunk 
with the breath of the morning? Was not the 
manna, the bread from heaven, found on the 
dew, and did it not have to be gathered before 
the sun was well up? If it is sunshine, he is 
glad. If the rain falls, he recalls the Arab 
proverb, “All sunshine makes the desert.”- There 
come to his mind the words of the poet with 
the heart of a child, who loved nature so much 
that he never had time to get a hair cut; 
The rain is raining all around, 
It falls on field and tree; 
It rains on the umbrellas here. 
And on the ships at sea. 
And he sings under the cloud, as well as in 
the sunshine, for did not Stevenson also write: 
The children sing in far Japan, 
The children sing in Spain; 
The organ with the organ man 
Is singing in the rain. 
Do not pity the suburban gardener. It is 
rather for him to pity others. 
ANOTHER CHANGE IN THE TROUT LAW 
Once more the legislative tinkers have taken 
a fling at the New York State brook trout law. 
The Sanner bill, endorsed by the Conservation 
Commission, just passed and signed, opens the 
trout season April 15 instead of May i as at 
present. This reverts to the law of 1912, and, 
while there is no reason why trout should not 
be caught as early as April 15, it would be a 
great convenience to anglers if the law could 
stay “put” and not shifted like a checker at the 
will of legislative players. 
REVISED MAINE FISH LAWS. 
Before you get the last of your tackle packed 
for your Maine fishing trip, you would do well 
to glance over the revision of the Maine fishing 
laws which go into effect July ii. It is im¬ 
portant to note that the bass season does not 
open until June 15, closing Sept. 30, while trout, 
salmon and landlocked salmon may not be taken 
after Sept. 15 in brooks and streams above tide 
water. 
FOLEY REVOLVER LAW. 
Governor Sulzer has signed the Foley small 
arms bill, which amends Sections 1897 and 1914, 
penal law of New York State, making it a felony 
for a person to carry or possess a bomb or bomb¬ 
shell, and providing for the issuance by a magis¬ 
trate of a license for carrying a concealed weapon, 
to a commissioner of correction of a city or any 
warden, superintendent or head keeper of a penal 
institution, also to any householder, merchant, 
storekeeper or bank messenger of good moral 
character, such weapon to be kept in the house 
or store or in the case of the messenger while 
in the employ of a bank, and also to any other 
person of good moral character where proper 
cause exists for the issuance of a license. 
This new law, although put through as an 
amendment to the Sullivan law, amounts practical¬ 
ly to a new law.. If properly enforced it should 
give the householder the relief denied in the 
old law, that of having a revolver in the home, 
and while there seldom is use for a revolver in 
the house, its possession gives the occupants that 
indefinable feeling of security, so easily engulfed 
by darkness of night. Therefore, if the Foley 
law does nothing else, it will lend many a house¬ 
holder a package of moral courage and increase 
the business of the sporting goods dealer. It is 
a great improvement on the Sullivan law, and 
we congratulate the Empire State legislators on 
their developing intelligence. The new law goes 
into effect Sept, i, 1913. 
Home, Sweet Home. 
BY J. M. LEWIS. 
To knot my shoes together by the strings, 
To wad my stockings into them, and go 
Down dusty roads I knew in bygone springs, 
To kick up dust and get a stone-bruised toe; 
To loiter on the bridge across the run 
And dangle my feet there till day grew dim. 
And watch the timid minnows dart and swim. 
Those were the days! Rare days, sweet days and good; 
The creeks sang songs, and their each song was new; 
Birds sang new songs in every shady wood. 
And never since have skies been such a blue; 
And never since have clouds been half so white. 
And never since has life seemed half so sweet; 
Stars do not shine as stars then shone at night. 
Paths now are not so coaxing to my feet. 
Why, I can take a greenheart rod and flies, 
The costliest, and whip a woodland stream 
For hours and hours, and never get a rise. 
And never see a speckled beauty gleam 
In the brown deeps, when in the olden days 
A wriggling worm hung on a bent-pin hook. 
Tied to a cotton line would catch the gaze 
And lure the finest beauties from the brook. 
And I could whistle then! No mocker now 
Can half way mock the tunes I whistled shrill. 
Till music seemed to drip from every bough 
And echo back to me from the far hill; 
And now I cannot even purse my lips 
To get more than the shadow of a croon; . 
My whistle now is discords, shrills and skips. 
And all day trying would not bring a tune. 
The years have given me more than most men 
Have gathered from the years which pass them by. 
And no man can win back to youth again— 
Spring’s colors cannot always tint the sky; 
But if I could go barefoot just once more, 
Along the dusty road in the sweet gloom, 
And if I could call back the skill of yore, 
The hills should echo back my “Home, Sweet Home.” 
