Oct. 12 , 1912 
FOREST AND STREAM 
463 
“The columns devoted to this popular sport 
will from week to week contain articles similar 
in character to that in the present issue. 
“No archer can well afford to be without 
the paper. Our readers who are followers of 
the sport will confer a favor upon their friends 
by directing their attention to the Forest and 
Stream.” 
Archery is coming again, and we are 
pleased to see that the Forest and Stream is 
giving some of its valuable space to this best 
of all athletic recreation. 
Edward B. Weston. 
Pittsburgh Archers Shoot Well. 
Representatives of the Pittsburgh Athletic 
Association, Beechview and Bon Air Archery 
clubs held a shoot on the Bon Air range, Satur¬ 
day, Oct. 5. 
In the morning a match round of 96 arrows 
at 60 yards was shot between Dr. Hertig and 
Mr. Wolfe on one side and Mr. Jiles and Mr. 
Holmes on the other. Scores follow: 
Hits. Score 
Hits. 
Score 
Dr O L Hertig. 90 
446 
W H Holmes... 81 
382 
D A Wolfe.... 
.. 68 
268 
Jas S I iles.. 
.... 74 
306 
Total. 
...158 
714 
Total. 
.155 
688 
In the afternoon 
an American 
round 
was 
the program. 
Thirty 
arrows at 60, 
50 and 40 
yards range, 
90 in 
all. 
Scores: 
Hits. Score 
Hits. Score 
Dr Hertig ... 
.. 87 
503 
T S Jiles.... 
.... 78 
360 
W H Holmes. 
.. 78 
430 
D A Wolfe. 
.... 76 
333 
These four gentlemen have been shooting 
less than a year. Mr. Holmes, having shot his 
first arrow on July 6 has had less than three 
months’ experience. Mr. Wolf has faced the 
target less than ten times since he began to 
shoot, while Mr. Jiles has only been shooting 
since May. O. L. Hertig. 
Archery Notes. 
The Scottish-Americans at Jersey City, N. 
J., have organized an archery club with twenty- 
five charter members, and are holding regular 
shoots on the grounds provided by the Park 
Commissioners of the city, jersey City is the 
third municipality to provide ranges for archery 
on its public grounds. A second club composed 
of professional and business men has been or¬ 
ganized at Jersey City. These clubs have 
arranged a competition team shoot with the 
archers of Pittsburgh, Pa., to be held later in 
the month. 
Miss Mary A. Brownell, member of the 
Newton Club, has assumed her duties as in¬ 
structor in archery and fencing at Smith Col¬ 
lege. One hundred and ten girls have been 
enrolled in the classes in archery. 
The archers of Boston, Jersey City and 
Pittsburgh have been invited by the committee 
on arrangements for the July 4th, 1913, celebra¬ 
tion at Wayne, Pa., to compete in the archery 
events on that occasion. 
Ellis Spear, Jr., secretary of the National 
Archery Association of the United States, has 
sent notices to all the members of the as¬ 
sociation, inviting them to participate in a team 
shoot on Columbus Day, Oct. 12, sending in 
their scores for tabulation. 
The Last Arrow. 
Founded on an incident of the French and Indian War 
of 1696. 
BY HENRY D. ATWOOD. 
As the Indian lay in his peaceful glade, 
At rest on his couch of the deer skin made, 
He saw in a vision his tribe dispersed, 
And the warriors slain by a race accursed; 
Whom ages before, wise prophets foretold, 
Would come to their land for conquest and gold; 
Who would seem like the angels, so white and so fair. 
So blue were their eyes, so golden their hair. 
And he tossed in his slumbers, and murmured low: 
“Alas, for my people, they will melt like the snow; 
They will vanish from earth, like the mist from the sun; 
Their time is soon over, their race will be run. 
Concealed in their coverts, existing in pain; 
Sought out by the foeman, discovered and slain,” 
And his hand rested lightly, where lay by his side 
The young Indian princess, his early won bride. 
And she woke with a shudder that chilled her heart’s 
blood, 
As frost chills the fountain and chains up the flood. 
And she raised her lithe figure, and bending her ear, 
She listened and looked for the sound drawing near. 
’Twas a tread like the cougar’s, displacing the leaves, 
That even when wakeful, the watcher deceives; 
And she strained her fair vision o’er the landscape in 
sight 
Where the dark bending willow and hemlock unite. 
At the edge of the clearing, lifting branches on high; 
Weaving figures fantastic, towering 1 up to the sky. 
And she saw for an instant, ’neath the moon’s pallid 
glow', 
A figure half standing, half crouching below; 
And her heart stilled its beating; the features proclaim 
A renegade white, lost to honor and shame; 
Who long had pursued her, had fought with her sire, 
Had tortured her tribesmen with gauntlet and fire; 
Had plundered their village and captured their game. 
And given their wigwams to ravage and flame. 
’Twas he, and no other; she well knew the face 
Peering out from the branches he thrust from their place. 
And over his features a baleful gleam passed, 
As a glance from his covert he rapidly cast. 
Then beneath the dark shadows again he withdrew, 
And hastened away to his murderous crew. 
And Neoskaleeta a moment in prayer. 
Besought of great Manitou her people to spare; 
Then she spoke to her warrior, who slumbering lay: 
“Arouse, Kiodago, arouse, thee, I say! 
De Graas is upon us, he follows us still. 
In hopes to surprise us, and so w'reak his will; 
Let the braves be assembled. Let the warriors all know 
They must fight to the death with their bitterest foe.” 
Aroused in an instant by the warning she gave. 
Every sense was alert of her valorous brave; 
He sprung from his couch, he seized on his bow, 
And his quiver of arrows about him doth throw. 
Then bounded away to the fast waning fires. 
And roused from their slumbers the warriors and sires. 
And soon they were stationed in ambush around, 
Each man like a statue, in silence profound. 
E’er the light of the dawning gave token of day. 
And the shades in the forest had dispersed at its ray, 
There was heard from the distance a murmurous sound— 
’Twas the bands of the foeman encircling the ground. 
Soon the whites, ne’er suspecting their presence was 
known, 
Rushed with shouts on the wigwams, whose inmates had 
flown; 
But they rushed to destruction, midway in career 
They were smote from each quarter with arrow and spear. 
The contest long doubtful, at last had an end; 
The bright rays of morning the leaguers befriend. 
And betrayed in each recess the warriors concealed. 
And, deprived of their shelter, it forced them to yield. 
They retreat fighting bravely, they sell their lives dear. 
For the heart of the Mohawk is callous to fear. 
When at last ’tis all over, and each rocky steep, 
Drenched with blood, showeth plainly the pathway they 
keep; 
Then the renegade, casting fierce glances around, 
Cries, “Seek out Kiodago! The chief must be found!” 
’Mid the shot and the shout of the foe, as they fell, 
The prize that he sought for had vanished as well. 
And afar up the mountain to a grotto unknown, 
Ne’er heard of by white men, Kiodago has flown. 
And Neoskaleeta, with terror distraught. 
At last to this refuge in safety was brought. 
But as swift on their trail as the sleuth hound can fly, 
Doth the renegade white with his followers hie. 
For oft had he seen, as he shared the same fire, 
And appeared as the friend of the princess’ brave sire, 
The chief take him way to the far mountain’s head, 
J o gaze on the scene in its beauty outspread, 
Where the silvery waters lay curling below, 
That were fed by the springs of the pure mountain snow. 
And he cried in his joy as he looked on his prize, 
“She is mine, she is mine! And who thwarteth me dies!” 
As he bounded aloft, how exultant the shout 
That echoed and pealed through the wild wood about; 
And quickened the flight of the fast fleeing twain, 
Till the dizziest height of the mountain they gain, 
Where crevice and chasm, alike yawning wide, 
Spread a path of destruction upon either side. 
And here, ’neath the shelter of a storm-riven tree, 
They turn them at bay and their fell foeman see. 
He hath followed them far with a hatred dire. 
And a heart that was fed with a lustful fire. 
Now he pauses a moment, for the trail is lost; 
But that moment proves fatal, his life is its cost; 
For the chief bends his bow, the string draweth tight; 
And the arrow has flown with the speed of the light. 
Tt has cleft through his corslet to the vile traitor’s heart. 
With a terrible cry, as he feels the fierce dart. 
He reels once about, with his arms wildly thrown. 
With a grasp at the air and a life ebbing groan, 
E er a hand could give aid, in convulsion’s last throe, 
He shot from the height to the dark gulf below. 
At the sight all his followers drew backward in fear; 
And swiftly then fled, though the prize was so near. 
Now joy to the chieftain, whose danger is past, 
Whose quiver was empty, that arrow his last. 
’Tis a tale of the past that my muse has told; 
Methinks with the ages it cannot grow old. 
While the human heart has its hopes and its fears, 
Its days of joy, as of grief and tears, 
The human heart is a mystery still. 
Will it listen at last to its Maker’s will? 
Will it learn that to love is better than hate; 
That the crimes of the past we must expiate; 
That the Ruler of all, in the Ark divine, 
Will teach us the word and countersign? 
Will open His arms, when we fall asleep. 
As the shepherd would welcome his wandering sheep; 
Will open his arms, and receive us all, 
If we will but list to His loving call; 
And an equal care will on each bestow. 
With a look benign that we all shall know? 
Ah! Blessed be the day. and joyous the hour, 
When human passion no longer has power 
To kindle to hatred the hearts that in peace 
Forever shall dwell in a happy release 
From war, through the ages, in welfare and weal. 
Till the future of time should its purpose reveal; 
Till the waves that have smote us, the tempests that 
tore, 
Shall be silenced and calmed on eternity’s shore. 
When the time shall come in the passing years, 
That the foe of to-day as our friend appears; 
When the hand that holds the glittering sword 
Is stayed at the sound of a peaceful word; 
When the echo of bells is borne on the air. 
As they, tell of the peace that rules everywhere; 
When dissensions shall die, as die they must, 
When the guns are spiked, and the swords are rust; 
When the plow shall run in its furrows wide, 
And the peaceful arts shall our progress guide; 
Let the land of Columbia, where dwell the free, 
Be proudly the first with its kin to agree; 
And the hand in her friendship that England extends, 
Let us grasp it as heartily, and ever be friends. 
Chicago Archery Club. 
Boston, Mass., Oct. 2.— Editor Forest and 
Stream: Scores made by the Chicago team on 
Sept. 28 follow: 
96 arrows at 90 yards: Hits. Score. 
George L. Nichols..:. 88 432 
H. W. Bishop. 75 365 
Dr. Edward B. Weston. 80 348 
J. H. Pendry. 70 300 
313 1445 
Owing to weather conditions, the Boston 
archers were unable to shoot. 
Burton Payne Gray. 
