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simmer there as long as possible until the contents become of the consistency of thick soup. Add salt and pepper, and, if it becomes too thick, hot water, and be sure to keep it stirring so that it will not adhere to the bottom of the kettle and impart a scorched taste to the stew. When it is thoroughly done dip it out with tin cups and sit around the campfire and enjoy it, because all that it requires to make a most excellent dish of this is that it shall be sufficiently cooked and well seasoned. If you have such a luxury as a jar of olives, a little olive liquor poured in while the mess is cooking will give it a regular Delmonico flavor. In the meantime,


can be buried in the hot ashes at one end of your fireplace and baked. You can tell when they are done by stabbing them with a sharp, pointed, slender stick. If they are not done the potato will be soggy and offer some resistance, but when fully done, after the stick has penetrated the crust it will go through the interior as easily as it will through flour. A little salt on these is all that is necessary to make them a palatable dish, but, of course, they are improved by the use of butter. In cooking the soup just described, which is known in the South as a


they use a very large iron kettle and stir it with long-handled wooden spoons, which the men cut out with their jack-knives; anyone whose spoon strikes another must pay a forfeit of some kind. If the girls are invited to one of these "Burgoos" the nature of the forfeit is easily determined; but when it is only the boys the forfeit is generally of a ruder and less pleasant nature than a kiss.


After you have had your feast you can secure a board up against the trunk of a tree or the fence, with a nail or two to hold it in place. Then rule, with a piece of chalk, a straight line down the centre of the board from top to bottom. After this decide upon a distance for a taw-line from this target and then begin at once throwing hatchets at the line drawn on the board. The Indians of olden times were experts in

THROWING THE TOMAHAWK, and many of the old white pioneers were also adepts at this novel art. You will be surprised how accurately you can throw a hatchet after a little practice, and I have seen a group of boys in Kentucky standing forty feet from a target of this kind, stick one hatchet after the other exactly in the line and each hatchet so close to its neighbor that the wonder was that all the handles were not split. Let Daniel Boone make


of some kind on a piece of leather or cloth which will be awarded to the scout making the best score in throwing the tomahawk, and the winner can wear the totem on the breast of his hunting shirt just as the great Daniel Boone wore the totem marks bestowed upon him by his admiring Indian friends. Remember, boys, that any sort of husky, outdoor sport is perfectly consistent with your position as a pioneer, because all those buckskin-clad ancestors of ours indulged in athletic games, running and jumping and wrestling being favorite pursuits as well as turkey shooting and gander plucking.


was a rude and cruel sport for the goose or gander was tied fast to a horizontal plank on the top of a pole and his neck, from his head down, was plentifully daubed with soft soap. Then the hunters gathered at the backwood's festival, mounted their horses and dashing by at full speed would strive to grab the gander by his neck and jerk him from his perch. It was rough on the gander, but these rude, half savage men enjoyed the sport, not because they were cruel, but because they were thoughtless. In the next number of RECREATION I will tell you how to have a gander plucking without being subject to any accusation of cruelty. In other words, we will preserve the fun of the game without tormenting the poor gander. Wishing you all a very Happy New Year, chuck full of fun, I will close by a request that each fort will send in a report to the Founder of what interesting things they have been doing that we may publish these reports for the benefit of the other forts.


Since the boys have been asking for a distinctive cry of their own, we here give one gotten up in college style which is appropriate for the Sons of Daniel Boone:

Wow! Wow! Wow!
Row! Row! Row!
Buckskin and leather socks!
Waugh! Waugh! Waugh!
Rah! Rah! Rah!
Cut-a-notch !
Cut-a-notch !
Cut-a-notch soon!!

For we are the Sons of Daniel Boone!!

I want to say, boys, that this slogan of the Sons of Daniel Boone is composed almost entirely of old Western expressions, and consequently is unique in its line. I trust that it will please you all and be successful in filling a long-felt want of which the boys have been writing. Now, get all together

and practice the yell in unison and see how much noise you can make with it and, when you have got it down fine, spring it on some of your friends and startle them. Also use it on all occasions of triumph, or as an expression of approval for anything that has happened, but, to be effective, it must be shouted in unison by a number of voices, and shouted with vigor and enthusiasm.

HE WAS NOT A SON OF DANIEL BOONE Keyport, N. J., Nov. 26.-While handling a shotgun on Saturday afternoon Clinton Walling, 17 years old, son of John H. Walling, of Centerville, about two miles back of this place, shot and instantly killed his cousin, Mabel Walling, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Wyckoff Walling. Miss Walling would have been 17 years old to-day. The shooting occurred at the home of the young man while Miss Walling was making a call. The shot entered her neck and went up into her head.

This could not have happened had the boy been a Son of Daniel Boone, for our boys train themselves so as to never, under anv circumstances, point a gun, with or without a load, at anyone.



Some of the discussions in your magazine puzzle me extremely. The antelope, that pretty bundle of springs, does jump. I killed one with an arrow while it was in full flight over a clump of lull-berry bushes fully ten feet high. I have seen one take a shed, nine foot, sloping to six high, and eight feet wide, like a hurdler. I owned a fawn that cleared a piano box used to close (as a gate) a yard made of chicken wire three feet high. The fact regarding wire fences is that the antelope does not understand them, but will try to push through, like a fly on a window


This same fawn was "rushed" by the town's pack of greyhounds while in the yard. The picket fence it understood, as well as a six-foot tight board fence fifteen feet beyond. It hopped over both these and went down the dusty road like a ricochetting rifle ball. Even when the hounds straightened out they stood no chance whatsoever. The fawn led them a mile chase for the fun of the thing, and I had time to put her in the safety of the barn before the first dog appeared.

An antelope can beat the best dog that ever lived a hundred yards in a mile straightaway. After that it's different. We used to course antelope, deer, jack-rabbit, coyotes and gray wolves constantly. The jack-rabbit's speed is overrated, while the antelope's undoing, I believe, is entirely due to fright, lack of gameness, and, most of all, to the

tremendous burst he makes at the start. Time and again I've seen them fly clear of the dogs like bouncing bales of lint in a hurricane. And they will assuredly jump any solid obstacle in their wav.

Speaking of the wire fence and antelope, another curious lack of understanding, common to all animals, is that of a missile thrown by hand. It isn't until the throwing motion has been followed by the pain of being hit many times that even so intelligent a beast as a dog translates cause and effect. Of course, in many instances, the rapid motion of the arm will scare a brute. If not, it will calmly watch a stone (or whatever) while it is on its way, making no attempt to dodge or evade it.

I noticed this first in the case of a small puma watching me from a ledge about sixty feet above the creek. I didn't like to pass him, so, to get him out of the way, I "pasted" at him with a stone the size of a lemon. He looked fixedly at the stone. I yelled "Look out!" at him as though he were a man, but there he lay until the stone thumped him squarely on top of the head. He was half way up a hill a thousand feet high before I had gotten more than twenty feet up my


This further proves that the mountain lion is a cowardly brute, and that people who live in deep gulches shouldn't throw stones. "Lakota," Richmond, N. Y.


Even missionaries can draw a long bow when telling hunting stories, for one of them says, "A Hottentot, while asleep on the top of the thick spreading boughs of a Whitestone tree, rolled over in his sleep and fell kuflunk upon a lion which was snoozing beneath. The lion was so alarmed that he fled in dismay, while the Hottentot climbed up to his roost and went asleep again."

The killing of deer and antelope in western Nebraska during the closed season is being investigated by the State Game and Fish Department. Recently word was reIceived that a deer had been killed in Hooker county and an antelope in Keith county. Sheriff Rector, of Hooker county, has reported that no deer have been killed in Hooker this year, and from Keith comes word that the antelope was killed during the open season, which closed November 15. Other reports of deer and antelope killing are being investigated. Several herds of deer and antelope exist in the northwestern part of the State. They are protected during all seasons of the year by the government foresters and ranchmen and are increasing rapidly.



When we speak of recreation in this magazine we mean OUTDOOR diversions, with a big, big "O." It is a common expression to speak with the utmost contempt of a hog, and we frequently hear people say, "as dirty as a pig." Yet


is as clean, fierce, independent and self-reliant an animal as is found in the forests, and its habits are every bit as cleanly as those of the other forest creatures. Its food consists of nuts, acorns and succulent roots, a bill of fare to which no objection can be made by the most captious critic; but when the wild boar has, through ages of overfeeding and confinement, become


it gorges itself with swill, half-fermented garbage and the refuse from the kitchen, and wallows contentedly in its own filth. It is then A CIVILIZED PIG. The


makes its honey from the sap flowing from the storm-broken branches of the sugar maple and box elder. The nectar stored in the blossoms of the forest trees, wild flowers, mints, nettles, wild thyme and other aromatic and delightful materials, and, consequently,


has as distinctive a gamey flavor of its own as do the game animals which shelter themselves under the foliage of the big tree or the grouse which roosts in its branches. But


lives in an artificial hive, often deposits its honey in an artificial comb, and, in place of the spicy wild flowers to gather its honey from, the chemically prepared syrups furnished it by the owner of the hive and the civilized honey is over sweet, flat and insipid.

The lesson to be drawn from this is not that all men should revert to savages, but it is that all men should have elbow room, fresh air and be unconfined, mentally and physically, before they can develop the highest condition of manhood and produce the best work. Our CITIES, without exception, are


In making this statement I speak by the book, for I have personally made a map of almost every town and hamlet between the Mississippi River and the Atlantic Ocean. And on these maps I located every house, barn and shed, and I can state emphatically that, although there are parts of every city in which the individual residents have the appearance of cleanliness, there are also whole sections of every city where the filth, moral and physical, is worse than that of any pig sty. This comes from overcrowding and herding people into limited quarters. Pigs, as a rule, have plenty of fresh air, which is denied to the people inhabiting the human styes; and the contamination of these places spreads in the form of impalpable dust, loaded with microbes, spoors, bacteria, which float on the tainted atmosphere and enter into and pervade even the neat appearing mansions of the rich. It is evident to the most casual observer and thinker that


Every city is a pig sty, and the products of the men who labor in them are likened unto the product of the bees fed on glucose. They are flat, unwholesome and insipid.

Of course, we are now running up against one of the most difficult and intricate of social problems; but it is not one that cannot be solved.

However, it is not the province of the editor of RECREATION to advance any economic theory, and whatever his private beliefs and convictions may be they will not be imposed upon the readers of this magazine; but it is the province of this magazine to preach


and to point out the evils which come from the lack of it. Take a man like Abraham Lincoln, whose early life was spent in the open air of the wilderness, who was born in a log house, through the chinks of which there was always a free circulation of ozone, and compare this man and his work with some of the gentlemen who have lately, most unwillingly, been placed in the limelight of the public. And you will see the difference, both morally and physically, between the man who split rails and the man who cuts coupons. We cannot all live in

a wilderness; but there is no good reason why every city should not be filled with parks and breathing places, and they will be if the people demand them, for there is nothing in the powers of a government like ours that will not be produced when called for by a stern, emphatic demand from the public itself.


In announcing the side hunt in the June number we spoke of eating crow, but it never occurred to us then that the boarding house keeper would serve turkey buzzard to his guests. However, Joseph Peppe, proprietor of a commissary on the new Pennsylvania freight line, gave his boarders a game dinner, consisting of rabbits out of season, various song birds, and the piece d'resistance was a fine, fat turkey buzzard. The boarders became seriously ill after the feast and Joseph paid a fine of $420 in cash for breaking the game laws in order to keep himself out of jail.


We are glad that the game warden in this case did his duty. But we fail to understand why Sheriff John Zeller, former Freeholder Richard Vonderbach, County Committeeman Leonard Marcy, Boulevard Commissioner Louis Diehm, and Police geant Philmore, when detected by the Game Warden breaking the laws of the same State should be allowed to go free. Each one of the party brought home with him a number of partridges, and is now grumbling because he did not get big game. The Game Warden really arrested these men, but, according to the Hoboken, N. J., Observer, as soon as he learned who his prisoners were he gave them their freedom. The men are personally unknown to the staff of RECREATION, but, as they were caught in the act of breaking the law, we can see no reason why they should not pay the same penalty as that inflicted upon the little dago of turkey buzzard fame. There should be no special privilege class in the game field.


Seven hundred beaver skins, worth about $10,000, were captured by Game Warden Loveday, in Ottawa, on October 20; but the Game Warden had to release his prize because the Quebec government itself was the law breaker. The law up there forbids killing of beaver and otter, and also forbids anyone having in possession the skins of those animals. In justice to the Quebec government, it is well to state that the skins had already been seized as captured illegally.

Nevertheless, as the officials did not comply with the regulations regarding the trans

portation of these skins, we see no reason why these officials should not be arrested and fined the same as any private citizen who might be so careless.


Mr. Langdon Gibson, brother of Charles Dana Gibson, was toastmaster at the dinner of the Arctic Club the other night. Mr. Langdon Gibson is one of the few men who have navigated the whole length of the canyon of the Colorado and, for vacation, he went north with Peary on one of his expeditions. He was formerly stroke oar of the champion eight-oared shell crew of Long Island.


A. W. Dimock, of the Camp Fire Club, lately spent six hours in the water with a twelve-foot manitee, which he was endeavoring to persuade to take a trip north and exhibit itself to the crowd at the New York aquarium. Mr. Dimock was successful in anchoring the manitee; but, while he was making preparations to ship the sea cow north, it made its escape. It will be interesting to the boys to know that this gentleman who could spend six hours in the water struggling with a twelve-foot manitee is past his sixtieth birthday.


Buffalo Bill has presented Mr. A. A. Anderson, the artist, with two buffalo bulls for his ranch. Mr. Anderson wants to start a herd but he don't see how he can do it under the circumstances at present.


We have just learned that Big Bill Otterman, of North Peak, Oregon, sat on a circular saw; and they buried both of him in the same grave.


locked in a country jail in Wisconsin was heard singing:

We-e-e-ll, I ain't got no regular place,
That I kin call my home-

Ain't got no permanent address

As through this world I ro-o-o-am,
An' Portland, Maine, is just the same
As Sunny Tennessee,

For any old place I hang my hat
Is "Home, Sweet Home" to me.


At last we have found some use for the carp. Re-shun Ro-jin says, "When any one is struck by thunder, make him lie upon his back and place a live carp in his bosom. If the carp jumps and moves, the patient will recover and the carp die. This is infallible."



With an increasing degree of amused interest I have recently watched a number of men-keen, practical, outdoor men, rush with common impulse to a most uncommonly false conclusion. The spirit with which these dog men of all degrees welcome the Utopian dream of a universal language has but few parallels in history. Generally speaking, there are five classes of men interested. The professional handler and his amateur brother, the owner, the field-trial judge and the reporter. Having myself been at various times in the position of handler, judge, owner and reporter, it is not only the amusing, but the pathetic side, which strongly appeals to me at this writing. I can well understand why each should, on first impulse, grasp almost any opportunity of escape from an old and deep-seated


The professional handler is a man who, as a rule, works very hard for his money, and who has to contend with difficulties, very much out of proportion with his duties. Bad weather, bad grounds, birds that are wild and birds that can't be found. Thick-headed dogs with soft-headed owners, and dough-headed dogs with hardheaded owners; judges who can't judge and reporters who shouldn't be allowed to report. With all these the professional might be a very happy man, but fate has willed otherwise. He must take an English dog, teach him to obey Irish or Dutch commands, and then turns him over to a Frenchman, a New Yorkers or a "Down Easter," who, with strange words, will ask the poor canine to do impossible things. Truly, the professional handler's lot is a hard one, and there should be a heavy punishment for the owner who asks his dog to "charge" when the handler has taught him to "drop."

The amateur handler also has mighty good reasons for demanding a uniform set of commands. After much careful thought and perusal of all the standard works on "breaking," or training, he has taught his dog to "come here," "fetch it," "drop," "steady," or, perhaps, "to-ho." Now, there is a movement set on foot to make certain commands illegal. Truly, there is need of prompt action. He can't teach his dog all over again, and he dares not fly in the face of the authorities and defy them. Therefore, he will endorse the plea for uniform commands, and

when the authorities meet in solemn convention he will present a petition that the words which he has taught be adopted for all time. It was hard for him to decide what words of command to use in his work, but, having mastered the problem, and taught "Sport" the true inwardly meaning of "toho" (quite an accomplishment, by the way), the art must be protected and kept pure.

The owner (as he is here classed, the man who pays some one to break, or handle, for him), like the professional handler, has troubles of his own that the outsider knows nothing of sick dogs, and dead dogs, handlers without conscience, amateur judges and anonymous reporters. In public competition he learns to accept these with good grace. But when he turns from the trials to his private shooting, and finds that his dog does not consider his words worthy of notice, he prays for a language that will convey his wishes, pure and unabridged, to the seat of that dog's understanding. sometimes even desires words to express his feelings toward the man who gave his pup its education.


The judge, in his turn, would welcome as a blessing the establishment of uniformity in commands. Under the present conditions he feels that it is quite possible for him to be deceived. Unless he understands perfectly the meaning of the very numerous words of command how is he to know whether or not the dog is obedient. This is also true of the reporter. If the number of commands adopted is not too large, and is confined to words of one syllable, it will be an easy matter for him to learn them by heart.

In order to make this new idea a rule there must, of course, be a total elimination of all unnecessary orders or expressions used in handling the dog. This sounds quite simple, but when one stops to consider that to do this it will be necessary for some of our best handlers to forget a number of expressions which they've used on generations of field-trial winners, it looks like quite a proposition. However, admit for the sake of argument that this is quite feasible, and suppose that the field commands are reduced to a given number, what is the effect on the dog. In my opinion, after all is said and done, the dog will continue to obey the gesture, the whistle and the tone of the command, almost, if not quite regardless, of the word that is spoken. If the command is

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