The New Point of View 
By WILLIAM J. EHRICH 
T HERE are few ardent sportsmen who have 
not been asked, “What is the fun of 
fishing?” “Don’t you ever get tired of 
hunting?” or any one of a hundred variations of 
these questions. These “outsiders” can no 
more understand us than we can conceive of a 
healthy, otherwise normal man spending his 
vacation at a hotel, between a bar, a news¬ 
paper and a ticker, staying up half the night 
and sleeping away the best part of the day. 
Scientists tell us that, excepting a few really 
abnormal people, such as geniuses on the one 
hand and degenerates on the other, human 
beings are very much alike. Now, what is the 
explanation of the fact that there is such a 
sharp dividing line between the pleasures of 
sportsmen and those of non-sportsmen, and 
that one class should think the other mentally 
deficient? 
Perhaps I have solved the problem—and per¬ 
haps not. At any rate, it will be a whole day 
before this old Florida Special will land me in 
New York, so I simply can’t make my pen be¬ 
have and I shall try to put my theory into 
words. 
Two years ago my wife was a “non,” and I 
must confess that in her eyes I was crazy. Now, 
as partners should share each other’s joys, I 
one day conceived a great idea. I brought home 
a pair of small rubber boots and announced to 
the madam that she was to accompany me for 
a couple of days’ fishing at Canadensis, Pa. As 
it was not going to be any fun for her, my wife 
induced an old friend to go along for company 
“while crazy Will was fishing”; the madam was 
interested in birds; in fact, now she is very well 
posted on the birds of eastern North America. 
The beautiful little Broadhead, winding through 
mountains and fields, attracted her, the whole 
atmosphere of what I can only describe as the 
open got into her blood, and those girls spent 
two entire days up to their knees in the clear, 
cold water of the stream. Wet feet were for¬ 
gotten, the lunch of sandwiches tasted good, 
and although the madam caught “nary a fish,” 
she decided to leave the children long enough to 
give us a fortnight in the Temagami Reserve. 
The following winter, when I went to the in¬ 
terior of Florida, she again accompanied me and 
we spent a week camping on the edge of Green 
Swamp collecting specimens. A trip to New¬ 
foundland last spring made the madam perfectly 
“camp wise,” and as I am writing this she has 
both boys at Mohawk, a little settlement in the 
“mountains” at the geographical center of 
Florida. The idea is to be where they can all 
be outdoors. 
On the whole I am happy to say that the lure 
of the open has as strong a fascination for m; 
wife as it has for myself. She has at the mos 
caught two dozen fish, has never discharged i 
firearm of any kind and would never kill any¬ 
thing if she did know how to shoot; so hei 
entire pleasure consists of seeing and studying 
the various birds, flowers and other manifesta¬ 
tions of the Creator, and living the care-fre< 
life of the open. 
Now for the other side. At a dinner re¬ 
cently a man who owns a place in the Adiron- 
dacks, and consequently thinks he must be a 
sportsman, told me that a member of his party 
had caught in the St. Lawrence a muskellunge 
weighing thirty-two pounds. My interest can 
be imagined. “Why,” said my friend, “it wasn’t 
any particular fun.” After a time I discovered 
that the fish had been hooked with a rope, had 
been hauled in hand over hand, and shot with a 
pistol when alongside the boat! 
That is the same type of man that used to sit 
in a boat day after day when hounding was 
allowed in New York, and when a deer was 
chased into the lake, have a guide row him 
within five feet of the creature—sometimes hold¬ 
ing it by the tail—and murder it in cold blood. 
Then he would come back to the city and say 
that hunting was no fun. But let the same man 
go and live in the woods with an enthusiastic 
sportsman; let him try to learn something about 
game; some rainy day when traveling is easy, 
let him steal up to a deer; let him fish for trout 
in a rippling brook with a three-ounce rod and a 
hair leader: let him hunt quail with a beautiful 
setter whose every point is a living picture. In 
short, get that same man doing something that 
TWO VIEWS OF THE TROUT POOL ON THE BROADHEAD AT CANADENSIS, PA, 
