Another Homing Dog 
DEAR FOREST AND STREAM: 
JUST read today of “Bobbie, the 
Homing Collie,” and it gave me a real 
thrill to read of his wonderful adven- 
tures, and the most interesting part of 
all, probably, is how Bobbie obtained 
his food. As Steffanson would put it, 
he “lived off the land.” His natural 
aptitude for making friends in his mas- 
ter’s café no doubt saved him, for evi- 
dently he made friends on his way home 
and they, perceiving he was hungry, 
fed him. 
I was relating the story of Bobbie to- 
night to Joe Groseclose, who is a great 
lover of dogs and of humanity, and he 
told me of another homing dog. 
Several years ago a family named 
Cook near here left for Missouri in a 
wagon. They had a faithful old dog, 
just a common cur. He no doubt was 
a guard dog, as the family lived away 
over on a hill by themselves and he had 
learned to look upon humanity with 
suspicion and distrust. Instead of a 
friendly wag of the tail he showed them 
his bristles and his teeth. 
The family was on the road twelve 
weeks to Missouri and found a new 
home, but lost their dog, for twelve 
days after the dog left Missouri he 
arrived at his old home place (Vir- 
ginia). He was nearly starved and 
exhausted. Possibly he had no food at 
all on the entire journey, as he had 
none of the instincts of a wolf for 
finding food and none of Bobbie’s for 
asking it. 
Dr. A. B. GRUBB, 
Cripple Creek, Va. 
The Desert 
DEAR FOREST AND STREAM: 
ONCE a year I go to the desert. I 
go there to cleanse my system of 
its year’s accumulation of egotism, 
superficialities and that veneer of sham 
and gloss that seems necessary (?) in 
this day and age to the business life of 
the city man. I try to time my arrival 
at the desert to that period just before 
dusk, when the sun is topping the 
highest peak of a western sand moun- 
tain, and the first purple shadows ap- 
pear at its base. I turn my car facing 
west, stop my motor, get out and sit 
on the north running-board. I stretch 
my legs and cross my feet in the sand 
and, taking off my hat, lean my head 
back against the body of the car. Fold- 
ing my arms across my chest, I close 
my eyes in complete relaxation—and 
there fades from my mind all mental 
contact with the world I have just left 
behind, and in which I have been forced 
to remain for the past year. 
I slowly open my eyes to see the last 
rays of the sun shooting skyward from 
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behind a bare mountain of sand and 
rock, making the sky ablaze with gold 
shading to coral, pale yellow blending 
into blue and purple, deepening towards 
the east to almost blackness; and 
shining through this dome, faintly, 
heralding the oncoming of a desert 
night, I see pin-point lights flicker, come 
and go. Up in the draws and canons, 
out on the promontories, down the 
sides of the sand mountains, and on 
out across the desert, from west to 
east, I see reproduced, except for the 
gold, the colors I had but a moment 
before seen in the sky above. 
I close my eyes again in respose, and 
for the third time see it all over again, 
through vivid mental impressions, or 
negatives, the soft colors, always blend- 
ing, and night settling down over the 
desert. When I open my eyes I am 
washed clean. I harbor no thought of 
ill-will against any soul; meanness, lit- 
tleness, badness, and sadness even, and 
worry, have no place in the world; 
they are non-existent; struggle and 
strife are things apart. I am brought 
from my reverie by the weird yelp of a 
coyote on a sand hill to the west, sending 
forth across the desert wastes his plain- 
tive call to his kind. I get up and 
stretch my arms in appreciation of my 
new-felt happiness, and make ready 
for a night on the desert sands—the 
night that comes once a year, out there 
beneath the stars, and alone. 
Dr. W. LUTHER HOLT, 
Los Angeles, Cal. 
The Ling 
DEAR FOREST AND STREAM: 
N ow that the fishing season is on, 
and tales concerning the large ones, 
which got away, are being told by both 
amateur and professional fishermen, I 
have a story that might interest at least 
a few readers who, like myself, are 
“fools for fishing.” 
This last summer, while in the north- 
ern part of Wyoming, I heard tales 
concerning the wonderful fishing in 
Dinwoody Lakes, which are situated 
about sixty-five miles west of Riverton, 
Wyoming. The lakes happen to be on 
the Shoshone reservation, and in order 
to fish there it is necessary to get a 
permit from the Indian agent at Fort 
Washakie. Needless to say, we secured 
the permit, and after several miles of 
almost impassable roads reached our 
goal. Frankly, the trout fishing was 
worth the whole trip, but it is not of 
trout fishing that I want to tell you. 
The lakes are inhabited by a fish 
known to the natives as Ling. It 
sounds like a Chinaman, looks like a 
snake, and is really nothing more than 
a specie of Molva Vulgaris, from the 
family of Gadedae. I know because I 



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The ling, commonly called stock fish 
looked it up. I shall never forget the 
first one I hooked. I sincerely believed 
that I had landed one of the freakiest 
freaks of fishdom, and proudly dis- 
played it to an old-timer, who told me 
that the lake was full of them, and 
that they were really good to eat, pro- 
viding, of course, that you didn’t see 
it before it was prepared for the fry- 
ing-pan. The encyclopedia says that 
it is found from Spitzbergen southward 
to the coast of Portugal in abundance. 
Its original home was in the North Sea. 
It seems that they come in close to 
the shore during the winter months, 
and large quantities are caught by 
casting out long lines. The fish are 
usually salted and sold under trade 
name of “Stock Fish.” Large quanti- 
ties are consumed in Germany and 
elsewhere during the season of Lent. 
The liver, which is perhaps the most 
~ peculiar thing about the fish, is used 
by the poorer classes in Germany as a 
medicine. A queer coincidence is that 
it is also used by the Shoshone and 
Arapahoe Indians for the same pur- 
pose. They consider it a delicious tid- 
bit when fried or roasted over the coals 
of an open fire. 
Another queer thing is that the size 
of the fish has no bearing whatsoever 
on the size of the liver. For instance, 
you may get a ling three feet long and 
the liver will be very small; again, the 
fish may be only a foot and a half and 
the liver will be as large as your hand. 
Just why this condition should exist 
I have never been able to learn, nor 
have I been able to find out how the 
ling brings its young into the world. 
I have caught them during the spawn- 
ing season, but never yet have I dis- 
covered anything that resembled an 
egg; neither have I ever seen a ling’ 
minnow under six inches in length. I 
