Nov. 9, 1912 
FOREST AND STREAM 
587 
listened to, but when some of the extremest of 
them ended up with the proof that “Old Bill Samp¬ 
son was right there with me all the time. He uster 
like to tell about it, allers. He died two or three 
years ago,” he knew by my looks and my silence 
that I was inwardly relegating his story to fiction, 
but he smiled, as he knew that I could not con¬ 
vict him in the absence of a witness. This was 
the case on one occasion when he showed me his 
big silver (or pewter) watch and said: “She's 
a putty good ticker, ain’t she?” I didn’t dis¬ 
agree with him, and he proceeded with his story. 
“Four years ago last November I lost her off 
in the woods when I was after moose. There 
was considerable snow that winter, and the next 
summer I couldn’t go back there, though I knew 
putty well about where I lost her. The next 
winter the snows was heavy and stayed all win¬ 
ter, and no lumberin’ was done there, and I 
couldn’t get in there till ’long in November that 
year—two years ago now, almost, when I was in 
with a feller after moose, and by gum, I found 
her right where I must ha’ dropped her, but I 
never would have found her if I hadn’t heard 
her tickin’.” 
He looked off at the mountain with a set 
expression which seemed to say, ‘‘If you think 
I’m goneter believe them stories of yourn about 
houses forty stories high in New York, you got 
ter believe about my watch.” 
All I could say to him was: ‘‘Well, Eph, 
you are just as good a ticker as your watch is. 
I may not be here for a year or two, but I cer¬ 
tainly expect to hear you ticking when I do 
come.” And I would be sorry to miss his kind 
of “ticking” in the woods. 
HIS INITIAL BAG. 
The Hunte rs. 
A hunter popped a partridge on a hill; 
It made a great to-do, and then was still. 
It seems (when later on his bag he spied) 
It was the guide. 
One shot a squirrel in a nearby wood— 
A pretty shot, offhand, from where he stood. 
(It wore, they said, a shooting hat of brown, 
And lived in town.) 
And one dispatched a rabbit for his haul 
That later proved to measure six feet tall; 
And, lest you think I’m handing you a myth— 
Its name was Smith. 
Another Nimrod slew the champion fox, 
He glimpsed him lurking in among the rocks. 
One rapid shot. It never spoke nor moved, 
The inquest proved. 
A “cautious” man espied a gleam of brown; 
Was it a deer—or Jones, a friend from town? 
But while he pondered by the river’s rim 
Jones potted him. 
! —Philadelphia Ledger. 
The Old Guard 
By GEORGE WESLEY BEATTY 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
It is so many years now that 1 have read 
Forest and Stream that I am rather timid about 
looking backward and counting up for fear of 
knowing just how much the years are holding 
against me. 
More and more am I impressed with the 
writings of the Old Guard—men who have moved 
up—men whose writings enlivened your pages 
and carried the scent of brine, the dank odors 
of the forest and the fragrance of the camp-fire 
into thousands of homes. Those men of sterling- 
worth, who lived at a time when this country 
was in its glorious infancy—its childhood, its 
spring time, when the antelope, the pigeon and 
buffalo were still among us, part of us—have left 
behind a pleasant savor, a lasting memory; un¬ 
consciously molded us and now are their silent 
hands pointing the dim forest aisles and presid¬ 
ing at our camp-fires. 
As I see the names conspicuous by their ab¬ 
sence I am moved to dedicate this little verse to 
them — your friends, my friends, our friends, 
humanity’s friends. 
They told through Forest and Stream of a 
time in this country which can never be repeated 
in the history of the world—the antelope, pigeon, 
buffalo and red man have passed away to be 
seen no more forever. Let us, therefore, keep 
their memory green as they did, the days of 
long ago. G. W. Beatty. 
The Old Guard. 
BY GEORGE WESLEY BEATTY. 
Outside, the sleet is driving. 
And the night is cold and drear. 
And the wee sma’ hours are gliding 
Toward the closing of the year; 
And the fire snaps and crackles 
Up the chimney in the dark. 
While the window casing rattles. 
And the flying of the sparks 
Work a secret spell about me 
As I sit here in their glow, 
Showing faces I no longer see— 
The friends of long ago. 
****** 
Coming faintly in my vision 
From their home in the beyond— 
Faintly, dimly from the region 
Of the Happy Hunting Ground- 
While their hands outspread in greeting 
To their friend of years ago— 
Brings to memory, so fleeting. 
Forms and faces that I know. 
There is Nanit and Recapper, 
And Du Bois and Mont Clare, too, 
Neddie Buntline, trim and dapper, 
And Will Wildwood, good and true, 
And Vaux (Dot) and Kephart sailing 
Close by Ike McClelland’s side 
With his rhythmic pages telling 
Tales of old Long Island’s tide. 
In the distance, shining brightly, 
Shows a star of wondrous grace; 
Who can that be, formed so lightly? 
Ah, I know the smiling face, 
’Tis the form of fair Na-tah-ki, 
Waiting for her chief to come. 
You have won our hearts, Na-tah-ki; 
Keep them with “The Old Man,” “Sun.” 
****** 
In ten thousand hearts your home is, 
At their hearthstones you preside; 
There, unconsciously you teach us 
Love, devotion, side by side. 
Moving in the distance dimly, 
There I see another form, 
Moving in the haze that thinly 
Cloaks the lake at early dawn, 
With his duffle stowed in tightly 
In the dainty Sairy Gamp, 
And as ever “going lightly,” 
Nessmuk making up his camp. 
Then I see another member. 
Who had once a tale to tell, 
And my heart will e’er remember 
What he told, and, ah! how well! 
Scented with the prairie grasses, 
Mesquite, palo verde and sage, 
Buffalo and Indian passes, 
Till the very living page 
Trembled in our eager fingers, 
Trembled in our hearts, and so 
There the memory still lingers 
Of dear Cabia Blanco. 
****** 
• Major Mather stands among them, 
With his fly-rod lightly poised; 
Jacobstaff and Hallock, men 
Whose sentiments are voiced 
By the thousands that come after, 
And in tales of yesterday, 
Brimming o’er with joy and laughter. 
Speeding us upon our way. 
Harris with his mighty tarpon, 
And his tales of fishing lore, 
Fland in hand with old Ike Walton, 
Heart of youth and head of hoar. 
Ahwahsoose and Yo and ITenshall, 
Some of them are with us now, 
Ready to report and marshal 
In the land beyond the snow. 
Soon the “call to arms” will send us 
Clear across the Great Divide, 
Where with waiting arms to greet—thus 
Stand the “Old Guard” side by side. 
Deal thou gently, Time, in passing. 
Let your hoar-frosts fall like snow, 
May our pleasures be long lasting, 
Till we hear the call to go. 
****** 
Then in that great Land of Glory, 
May we cut the “Old Guard’s ’ trail, 
Drain our brimming cups of story, 
Tell again the wondrous tale; 
There the antelope and bison 
Live, as once we saw them here, 
And the glowing red horizon 
Shows the stately standing deer. 
There we find rejuvenation. 
There our arms will never fail, 
In that Land of jubilation, 
Hail, dear Old Guard! Hail, thrice hail! 
Wyoming Notes. 
Jelm, Wyo., Oct. 25 .—Editor Forest and 
Stream: I have been in the timber of late and 
got a good many grouse, but am anxious to get 
pictures to accompany an article. One has no 
difficulty in getting the birds, but photo supplies 
take a long time to get to this neck of the 
woods. 
The last few days have been unusually 
severe for this time of year, and at the present 
writing the snow is waist deep to a tall Swede. 
It looks very pretty in pictures, but we get a 
trifle too much of its fluffy purity out here to 
suit me. It’s good for the hay crop, but I don t 
eat hay if I can possibly avoid it. 
R. W. Rathborne, Jr. 
