December, 1918 
FOREST AND STREAM 
713 
THE AUGUST COVER AGAIN 
To the Editor of Forest and Stream: 
AM enclosing to you a personal letter 
from my son showing how your August 
cover went home to the boys at the front. 
I do not know the drift of the verses he 
mentions, but thought you might be in¬ 
terested in the letter. 
H. W. Alverson, Corry, Pa. 
* * * 
EAR Dad: — Morning concert re¬ 
hearsal is just over and I am going 
to write of things that in the fullest 
sense of the word can only be understood 
by you and me. Your letter of several 
days ago in which you speak of the hills 
and your love for them, was fine. It hit 
me hard, in a weak spot. My love of the 
wilds is no less than your own and it 
brought back memories of the trips we 
used to make with rod and gun. It would 
be an endless job to enumerate them and 
also quite useless, for your memory is as 
good as mine, although the high lights 
that t stand out in the mind’s eye may be 
different. 
While you may not have taken a record, 
that incident of the trip I made back to a 
certain lunching spot after the forgotten 
“horn handled knife” can be retraced in 
my memory step by step—the unvoiced 
doubt as to being able to find the -spot— 
the very loud “hello” when I did find it— 
the frequent shouting and whistling to lo¬ 
cate the main party, coming back—the red¬ 
dening trees, the blue hills, that long shot 
at a squirrel high up in a tree across a 
gulley, the roar of the gun, and seeing the 
little animal go heels over head, the mutual 
exaltation and the hurried hike across to 
get the game. But this was just one trip. 
Oh, Dad, there in the open are found the 
things that count. Good old days gone by, 
but wait till I get back. When the corn 
is hoed and the rag-weed out of the cucum¬ 
bers, we’ll light out—won’t we? 
I’ve “found” myself in the army. The 
beginning was made in those long night 
hours in the General Electric, amid the 
roar and grind of machinery, when dirty, 
oily, tired to the point of exhaustion (I 
didn’t have much meat on my wishbone at 
that time) I would look through the dark¬ 
ness, see the old “Pennsylvania” creep out 
of the yards toward “Home.” 
The beginning—and the finishing touch—- 
in Cuba, hot, sweltering Cuba—after a full 
day of drill, parade, drill, concert, manual 
of arms, first aid, colors, concert, sweat¬ 
ing, tired and sick at heart, to flop on the 
sand and look out over that bay; to see 
a big transport tug at its anchor chains, 
whistle deeply once, pull up its small boat 
and slip out of the harbor while slowly 
up the signal rope is hoisted a single flag 
which means in the lore of “bunting toss- 
ers,” “Homeward Bound.” The finishing 
touch—in Cuba. 
The resolve to write of these things to 
you was given its start by a picture I came 
across yesterday. I went into the rest 
room and picked up a magazine. I sat 
down in a chair and looked a the cover of 
it for probably three-quarters of an hour 
without moving, oblivious to everything 
save the picture, a work of art. I won’t 
attempt to describe it. If you want a serv¬ 
ice flag for me—something such, get and 
frame the cover of the August Forest and 
Stream. I have it in my tent. To me the 
finest war picture yet painted, the first 
thing that ever inspired your son to write 
two verses of that poem I said in fun I’d 
write. I laid the picture down and went 
to a table and wrote it in about five min¬ 
utes. It may be good or bad, I am sending 
it to the publisher. 
With the love of those of the open, 
Elwyn. 
* * * 
Below is given a reproduction of the 
August cover which has inspired the poem 
in question. [Editors.] 
To a Cover of “Forest and. Stream” 
OT this trip, Old Pal” 
•I ' For an hour 
I have gazed upon that print 
Unmindful of the din. 
What memories are ’roused! 
The rest room throbs with life; 
Girls laugh; a sergeant tortures 
The piano. 
“Won’t you have tea”? 
“No—thanks.” 
The boys are singing 
“Over There,” 
Which blends not with 
The phonograph. 
For an hour, the print I held— 
Unmindful. 
“Not this trip, Old Pal” 
’Tis strange 
Mjr eyes should fill thus 
(A Marine!) 
And the picture dim 
In such a place as this. 
Still—I am not here ; 
The hills have claimed the hour 
And me—- 
My Dad and dog are close; 
There is no din— 
No laughter, save the stream’s. 
Once more 
I tread the fields in peace. 
After the hour—refreshed 
I go 
To camp and khaki— 
Unmindful. 
•Corporal E. S. Alverson, 9th Regiment 
Marines, Fort Crockett, Galveston, Tex. 
AFTER MANY YEARS 
To the Editor of Forest and Stream : 
UST how many years have gone by, 
since last I went a-fishing, I shall not 
tell. Many of the records of those times 
are on the pages of back numbers of the 
Forest and Stream, and it ever adds to 
the joy of life to hunt up and read some 
of the joyful outings, which marked the 
trail of the friendly years. Of those who 
contributed to the paper in those days, I 
wonder how many are alive, and still hunt 
and go a-fishing? Two at least are very 
much alive, I know, Colonel T. R. Roose¬ 
velt, and Emerson Hough, but of the others 
I am not sure as I have been out of touch 
with outdoor sports for a long time. 
But the other day I went a-fishing again. 
A friend said, “If you will get up in time, 
and walk out to the ranch for breakfast, 
we will go fishing.” Did I get up in time? 
Yes, I did. The sun had not appeared 
from behind Mt. Baker, when I went out 
West Main street, crossed Fishtrap Creek, 
where the trout abound, they say, and on 
until I came to Walter Creek, which comes 
racing down from the foothills of the Sel¬ 
kirks, across the line over in British Co¬ 
lumbia. A fine breakfast was waiting me 
at the ranch, and as soon as we ate we 
were off, beginning right at the house, for 
Walker Creek ran less than two rods from 
the front door of the ranch house. And 
what a day we put in! 
At noon time we lay on the grass, at 
the international boundary line, with the 
Union Jack floating from a tall pole near 
at hand and the Canadian customs house 
but a short distance away. As we lay 
there, with the bright sun o’erhead, with 
old Mt. Baker lifting his snow-capped 
head against the blue sky off to the south¬ 
east, and the great peaks of the Selkirks, 
glorious in their whiteness off northeast¬ 
ward, we talked of many things, and be¬ 
tween whiles, I thought of some of the 
friends, and some of the trips we had 
taken, as I lay there on the grass, at the 
boundary line in northwestern Washington. 
I wished for them all again, and felt my 
eyes grow a bit misty, as I realized that 
we never would be together again in life. 
After resting, we went into the custom 
house, and foregathered with the official 
in charge. He was just back from 
France, and when he finally thawed out a 
bit, we had a mighty interesting hour to¬ 
gether. He has two medals for distin¬ 
guished service, and is a fine showing of 
the Canadian section of the Anzacs. He 
stood in the doorway, and waved a good-by 
as long as he could see us, as we started 
back down the creek for home. 
Did we get any trout? We surely did, 
and the fried trout we ate at our belated 
supper that night tasted just as good as 
they used to when we cooked them over a 
campfire on the “North Shore.” Tired? 
Yes. Happy? Felt as though a quarter 
of a century had rolled off the number of 
years that are credited to me. As I started 
for town after supper, my friend E. W. 
Bayes said, “This has been a day which 
the LORD made, and we have rejoiced and 
been glad in it.” 
Myron Cooley, Lynden, Wash. 
(several letters have been held over.) 
