
FOUNDERS OF THE AUDUBON SOCIETY 

Dr WILLIAM BRUETTE, Editor 

Member of Audit Bureau of Circulation 


THE OBJECT OF THIS JOURNAL WILL BE TO 
studiously promote a healthful interest in outdoor 
recreation, and a refined taste for natural objects. 
August 14, 1873. 

LEONARD HULIT 
EONARD HULIT, former associate editor of 
FOREST AND STREAM, passed away at his home 
in Asbury Park, New Jersey, on Sep- 
tember 13th. ; 
Mr. Hulit was born in Freehold, Monmouth 
County, New Jersey, on December 12th, 1855. Of 
Scottish and Dutch ancestry, he inherited that type 
of rugged constitution which finds its normal ex- 
pression in a love of the out of doors, adventure and 
the pursuance of stalwart sports. 
His early opportunities for study being limited 
to three winters at George’s School House, the lad 
Hulit availed himself of every possibility for self 
improvement to keep apace with his yearning for 
knowledge. When books were unavailable else- 
where, he often walked for miles through lonely 
woods to a friend’s house where he borrowed the 
needed volumes. 
At the age of sixteen he taught school in the 
country and at the same time continued his studies. 
Then came a period of farming, followed by a short 
business career. 
But the heart and soul of the man lay in the 
woods and waters and he finally abandoned every- 
thing to devote his entire time to writing. From 
the vast fund of knowledge pertaining to creatures 
of field and flood, there came then, articles, stories 
and essays on fishing and outdoor life which for 
years delighted the readers of this journal. 
Because of his real understanding of the prob- 
lems of the country lad, Mr. Hulit was able to 
write the charming book “Fishing With a Boy,” a 
volume replete with nature lore, and a valuable 
addition to any outdoor library. At the time of the 
author’s death the book entitled “The Salt Water 
Angler” was just completed. This work is the 
result of the writer’s lifetime studies of the sea 
and will be a practical guide in a field that has 
been sadly neglected. 
It is given to but few men to garner in the short 
space of a lifetime, the intimate understanding of 
nature, together with the ability of expression, 
that Leonard Hulit possessed. American sporting 
tradition has indeed profited by his life. 
GRAY VISTAS AND BROWN DEPTHS 
OLOR lingers along the roads and down the 
shores of sliding streams. A splash of scar- 
let hangs in the maples, a dash of gold in 
many an oak, a flare of smoky embers on dun-spat- 
tered hillsides, and late goidenrod paints yellow 
daubs in the entanglement of fence corners, but 
the carnival time is fast ebbing. It is the ‘‘wee 
sma’ hour” of a great period and a great time. 
Nature bows to the silent trend and sombre ap- 
proach of the eleventh month. 
Consider the fallen leaves. A new blanket covers 
cool earth. Grasses have given up the ghost and 
are deep under heaps of dusky gold. Shadowy 
ravines echo to soft paws treading lightly the crisp 
raiment. The oak woodlot stirs with leaves and 
squirrel feet, the scratch of grouse talons, the 
leathern tramp of hunters. Rivers bear seaward 
vast golden rafts, and small streams are bank-full 
with an undulating yellow mass. Aye, the leaves 
are November herself. 
Mass gives away to innumerable lines, only the 
greenery of dark evergreens remains. Ponds 
gleam openly behind bough and branch, and thread- 
like brooks stripped of a leafy willow-awning, mir- 
ror inconstant skies. Cat’s-paws ruffle somnolent 
stretches, and silver shines fugitively amidst seas 
of sable. Spider balloonists cruise brown meadows 
and dun fields, their gossamer lines gleaming deli- 
cately in the dimming sunlight. 
The beauty and glory of November is skyward. 
Earth has had her day. Wondrous colors beyond 
the gamut of a chemist’s dream wander and wash 
far-flung spaces, and mundane dwellers throng in 
tidal manner, the city streets with never a glance 
nor thought of the display drifting beyond the 
last roof-line. Who of you have looked upon the 
East when the dawn was red? Who knows of the 
smoky mists of morning rivers, shot with the 
primal lances of sunlight, tossed in a confusion of 
invasive winds, and vibrant with the clatter of 
excited water fowl? Man loses nothing in lifting 
his eyes to the dawn, the clouds of noonday, the 
splendor of sundown, the moonrise and the fires 
of night. 
Sounds slit the tranced silence—the hum of a 
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