Marcu 31, 1906.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 

Belled Cow Moose. 
New York, March 21.—Editor Forest and 
Stream: Your editorial note appended to Mr. 
Manly Hardy’s recent article about moose in 
Forest AND STREAM of March 13, referred to a 
photograph which I took in Alaska of a cow 
moose which bore a bell. 
I am glad to send you the photograph in ques- 
tion for reproduction in your columns, for all 
evidence on this matter is interesting to natural- 
ists as well as to sportsmen. This photograph 
was taken on a mountain above timber line at the 
STEERS 

COW AND CALF MOOSE, COW WITH BELL. 
head of the North Fork of the McMillan River, 
in the Yukon territory, Sept. 11, 1904. I first saw 
the cow and calf feeding some distance away 
-and later they appeared on the ridge I was on. 
I first photographed them at 150 yards, and then 
approached within 100 feet or nearer, and photo- 
graphed them the second time. They paid no 
attention to me as I drew near until I happened 
to get between them and the wind, when they at 
once ran off, 
You will see that this photograph clearly shows 
the bell. 
I send another photograph of the head and bell 
of a cow moose killed by Mr. W. H. Osgood, of 
the Biological Survey, on the shores of the Mac- 
Millan River, about 100 miles above its mouth, 
about Sept. 25, 1904. Mr. Osgood brought the 
entire head to an old trapper’s cabin, which they 
were occupying nearby, in order that Mr. Run- 
gius might made some drawings of it. I have 
never seen a cow moose without a bell. 
C. SHELDON. 
The Passing of a Wilderness. 
JaMeEstown, N. Y., March 17.—Editor Forest 
and Stream: Although the march of improve- 
ment should no doubt be hailed with satisfaction 
by all well disposed persons, I must confess to 
a feeling of genuine regret that a railroad is being 
built through northwestern Colorado. This por- 
tion of that favored State has hitherto been, so 
far as railroads are concerned, an unbroken wil- 
derness embracing a region over 150 miles long 
and 100 wide—1I5,000 square miles into which the 
iron horse has never penetrated. The new road 
bisects this magnificent natural park and much 
of the wilderness will soon be wilderness no more. 
I have passed many happy weeks camping, 
hunting and fishing in this sportsman’s paradise, 
and have spent a week’s time in getting from 
Glenwood to the Elk Head range with a pack 
train—the only means of making the journey. 
Soon, alas, the tourist may be able to leave his 
railway train at Hayden and pitch his tent in the 
Elk Head Mountains the same day. ‘The little 
cowboy hamlets of Hayden and Craig on the new 
line used to be two long days’ journey from the 
railroad, when anybody wanted to go—which was 
seldom—and to me it was a real pleasure to find 
places so secluded that the newest news was gen- 
erally a week or ten days old. 
We are told that the building of the new line 
involves some of the greatest engineering feats 
of the day, and those familiar with the region 
will readily believe this statement. Standing on 
the trail near Pagoda Peak, about 11,000 feet 
above sea level, one may get a magnificent view 
of the valley traversed by this new road after 
crossing the big divide, a landscape said by cos- 
mopolites when in its fall colorings to be one of 
the grandest views of the world. Fifty or sixty 
miles to the northward the bald peak and white 
peaks of the Elk Head range jut boldly against 
the blue-black sky with marvelous distinctness of 
detail in the rare dry atmosphere. To the west- 
ward, stretching scores upon scores of miles, is a 
seamy region of mountains, valleys, bluffs and 
plateaus, bewildering in its vastness and colored 
with a brilliance past belief in greens, yellows, 
reds, brown, pinks and white—the whole blend- 
ing to soft purple and blue at the faraway Utah 
skyline. To me not the smallest charm of this 
grand vista lay in the fact that it concealed not 
a single locomotive, not a foot of track, and, in 
truth, not a village worthy of the name. But all 
this will soon be changed and the fair landscape 
will be marred with tracks, mines, derricks and 
coal breakers. 
Each year it becomes more and more difficult 
to find a stretch of real unbroken wilderness—a 
fact that the sportsman knows only too well. Not 
long ago I paddled up a lonely Canadian river 
far beyond the last railroad, the last lumber 
camp, the last trail, When more than a hundred 
miles from the shriek of the locomotive, I 
pitched my tent rejoicing that I was now surely 
far away from every reminder of civilization. 
Vain boasting, for, alas, upon my first excursion 
into the bush I came upon—what, a settler’s 
cabin? Far worse, a railroad survey stake. 
W. A. BRADSHAW. 

-“In the Lodges of the Blackfeet.” 
Every old-timer reading the articles now run- 
ning in Forest AND STREAM under the above 
title, recognizes that a chord of sympathy and 
union of feeling has been struck which could be 
appealed to in no other way. Such records in 
their value rank well with the famous records of 
Catlin, Parkham and other pathfinders and 
world-benefactors in this line. 

COW MOOSE WITH BELL, 
Those who, like Anderson, have seen and 
known the inner life of the Indians, and the wild 
animals in their native haunts, will feel as he has 
felt when he so strongly condemns the crowding 
back and destruction of both by the white man, 
and all because of his damnable greed for gold. 
ForEST AND STREAM in its earnest effort to se- 
cure and preserve such invaluable records is 
entitled to the very highest credit in its work, for 
in this it stands alone, and has in this line per- 
formed what no other journal ever has done. The 
future will bear most willing testimony to the 
intrinsic worth of the labor performed by this 
journal in preserving those records which are so 
rapidly being lost. 
The writer was born among the Indians and 
has spent his life in the West; and has known 
many men famous in the history of the western 
border. One of these was my personal friend, 
James Emmery, who had passed most of his life 
among the Indians, having lived with the Black- 
feet of the north, and been adopted into many 
tribes. In the Black Range Mountains of New 
Mexico, where I first met him, he gave me the 
strange and deeply interesting story of his life, 
and later nearly all his portable possessions. All 
these records, and manv others, I have still. He 
died at San Juan, on the Rio Mimbres, south- 
western New Mexico, in 1891, and we buried him 
on the plains and covered his grave with stones 
to keep the coyotes away. 
CLEMENT L. WEBSTER. 
Missouri’s Blue Springs. 
Dayton, O., March 16.—Editor Forest and 
Stream: I note the communication in this week’s 
Forest AND STREAM relating to the color of the 
sea and that of deep fresh water lakes. 
The bluest water that I ever saw is neither in 
the ocean nor in any deep body of fresh water, 
but in the great springs of southern Missouri. 
There are several springs in the Ozark region that 
are from 50 to 100 feet in diameter and perhaps 
50 feet deep, their outlets being streams strong 
enough to turn a mill. One of these is near St. 
James, Mo., being one of the sources of the Mera- 
mec River; another is Round Spring in Shannon 
county; there is another near the Niangua, and 
the largest of all is the Mammoth Spring near 
the Arkansas line. These springs are simply the 
outlets of subterranean rivers. Their water is 
of the same color as that of a solution of indigo, 
regardless of whether the sky is clear or over- 
cast: It is excellent drinking water. 
Horace KEPHART. 
Me a 
ALASKA, 
