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he suggested, I beg leave to refer to an editorial rather an astonishing editorial -that appeared recently in the "Morning Post," a journal not prone to what the modern world calls sentiment. The editorial was called "The Man Without Hate," and, although the writer prefers to use the words "good will" rather than "love," he makes it quite clear that in Mr. Baldwin's mental composition "hate does not exist," and he adds—which shows what a pass we have come to that "Mr. Baldwin has evidently found that the principles which inspired the Sermon on the Mount are something more than the shadowy buttresses of a dream."

"The Man Without Hate," who beIlieves in the Sermon on the Mount-a twentieth-century editorial.

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ment. I had been at a tea party where [F

artists and art writers were foregathered,
and as I was leaving an American friend
said to me: "I am sending you on a
copy of the 'Atlantic Monthly' because I
want you to read an article in it by
Glenn Clark called 'A Lost Art of Je-
sus.'

She gave me an address to which
I was to send the copy of the "Atlantic
Monthly" after I had read the article.
It is the March issue; so this article on
"A Lost Art of Jesus," which I read with
intense interest, is being passed on from
hand to hand. I read the article twice,
and then I had the curious desire to hear
the Prime Minister make a speech upon
it.

I fancy that he would thoroughly approve of the use of the word "art" in the title of Dr. Glenn Clark's essay, and so would his famous uncles and other great Victorians, especially the PreRaphaelite Brotherhood and Ruskin, who took it for granted, not worth arguing about, that there is something infinitely greater than mere technique, and that cleverness is a drawback, because when a man fixes his mind on cleverness he overlooks the essential thing-beauty.

Fan artist has not the feeling for beauty in him, he cannot express it in his work. It is strange how few artists have this sense of beauty. It is rare. Cleverness is common. Therefore there are more clever pictures and statues than beautiful pictures and statues. And the strange and satisfactory thing is that the public wants beauty. I have watched the visitors to the Royal Academy exhibitions and have marked the effect upon them of beauty-usually a little thing. You cannot mistake that look in their eyes. Beauty-spiritual beauty-has

held them.

And I have watched people standing before the towering, simple monument on the Thames Embankment to the dead heroes of the Royal Air Force. On the top is a great eagle, the color of gold, with outstretched wings, and on the pedestal are these words from Exodus xix. 4, "I bare you on eagles' wings and brought you to myself."

You cannot mistake that look in their eyes. Beauty-spiritual beauty, words allied to form-has held them.

How Many Ducks Will You Let Me

D

Kill in

R. HORNADAY, John Burnham, and T. Gilbert Pearson are all personal friends of mine. The Doctor is a John the Baptist preach ing in the wilderness. He knows of the destruction (of game birds) to come, and preaches against it. Few men have his knowledge and zeal.

When Dr. Hornaday dies, there will be no other man in America to take his place.

John Burnham is the President of the American Game Protective Association. We understand that the men behind him are manufacturers of guns and ammunition. Dr. Hornaday thinks they are opposed to reducing the limit of ducks and geese which a hunter can kill in one day, because they are interested in selling ammunition. Mr. Burnham, we believe, admits the appearance, but says that they are high-grade men who understand and favor game protection, and, besides, Mr. Burnham admits also that he is boss.

I have always found John Burnham absolutely square and patriotic in all

in One Day?

By WILLIAM C. GREGG

WILLIAM C. GREGG is

not a sentimentalist; he believes in the right to hunt. Though he prefers a camera himself, he does not question the taste of others who prefer the shotgun and the rifle. He does question the right of hunters to control or influence the game preservation policy of the United States on the reasonable ground that an interested party makes a poor judge.

public matters in which he and I have.
had a common interest, but I have not
been in this bag-limit fight.

T. Gilbert Pearson is the President of
the Audubon Societies. His character is

as square as his friendship for birds is long. You would, of course, expect an Audubon man to side with Dr. Hornaday, but, instead, he seems to be opposed to reducing the number of certain game birds which a hunter is allowed to kill. His argument is about as follows:

Thirty years ago the ducks and geese flying north and south across the United States stopped to feed and nest in swamps and marshes, where all kinds of bird feed abounded. In recent years there has been a mania among men to drain the marshes. This has destroyed the feed without adding much to the desired land values. Mr. Pearson makes the astonishing statement, or inference, that the ducks and geese which now fly over the old marshy feedingbeds are starving, and that it is perhaps. better to shoot them than to let them die a drainage death. I understand that this is Mr. Burnham's view, and the view of the manufacturers of ammunition.

I want to introduce another character, Dr. E. W. Nelson, Director of the Bio

logical Survey, a bureau in the Department of Agriculture which has to do with the conservation of animals and birds. I understand Dr. Nelson is very much concerned about this drainage of the marshes, and he probably agrees with the theory that it is better to shoot ducks and geese than let them be destroyed by famine. Dr. Nelson's position is too high and his mind too fine to attribute improper motives to him. But Dr. Hornaday thinks he is too much influenced by John Burnham.

I could introduce five or six more wellknown friends who show their teeth when this bag-limit controversy is mentioned. In their chosen field of learning all these men loom so high that in their presence I shift uneasily from one foot to the other in self-abnegation-that is, until I hear them discussing the bag limit.

All of these men agree that certain drainage should be discontinued and the areas restored to the original swamp. They do not all agree that starvation. should be anticipated by shooting.

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But

My experience with my naturalist friends is that they all have a hobbyhorse which they once in a while take out for an airing. My sympathies are largely with Dr. Hornaday, but if he moves too rapidly toward prohibition of shooting, perhaps the bird bootleggers will get the ducks just the same. why should Mr. Burnham and Mr. Pearson get mad, real mad, because Dr. Hornaday says it is wrong to allow hunters to kill twenty-five ducks and eight geese each day? Suppose some ducks do die of starvation; they have at least had their chance with nature.

Why hold on to the twenty-five and eight like grim death? When a man has shot fifteen ducks and five geese, suppose we gently say to him, "Friend, that's enough until to-morrow morning."

Some of these friends of mine are gun hunters themselves. (I prefer a camera.) They are not unprejudiced judges; they have a trace of the cave man in their make-up. They are very intelligent, delightfully companionable; but when they put on their hunting togs, take down. their double-barreled shotguns, and call the dogs they revert somewhat to the prehistoric type. They pick up their dead birds with some gusto; otherwise they would not hunt. I don't think them. entirely qualified to write bird laws for Congress. Neither would I allow the Boone and Crockett (big game hunters') Club to formulate the big-game policy for the American people. This hunters' sympathy for hunters crops out and may be ranged against the animals and birds,

Kadel & Herbert

A morning's shooting

and fortified by plausible arguments. They will also talk about shooting a deer or an elk as well as a duck to save him from possible starvation.

Take the Kaibab deer as an illustration. A year ago a commission was sent out by the Agricultural Department to report as to whether the deer in the Kaibab Forest reservation (near the Grand Canyon) were starving or not, and, if so, what was to be done about it. My friends Burnham and Pearson were members. I was asked to go, but could not. As I understand their report and conclusion, it was substantially:

That the deer has been protected for so many years they numbered many thousands, that their feed was inadequate, and that they were in a starving condition, or soon would be. They recommended

(1) That as many deer as possible be given away and shipped from the reservation; or

(2) That hunters be allowed an open season to shoot them; or

(3) That the Forest Service do the shooting.

You see, our two friends gave the hunters the first chance. When hunters go in, they want the best heads, the finest specimens. It is hardly conceivable that they would take the runts-at least until the better specimens were killed off. Why didn't our friends give the shooting job to the Forest Service as a first plan? I presume the old and weak deer would then have been selected for extinction and the strong specimens left to perpetuate the species.

Perhaps I am unfair, but I suspect them both of favoring deer-shooting as a sport. Just a minute please. I am not one of those anti-vivisectionists who wouldn't kill a fly. I recognize the open season for game shooting under wise laws and regulations formulated by disinterested people. I am saying that hunters should not draw up these laws, lobby for them in National and State Capitols, and act as the chief advisers of the enforcing officials. If hunters must be permitted to do such things, I don't know of two more intelligent and conscientious ones than John Burnham and T. Gilbert Pearson.

Why can't the controversy be passed over, say, to the Izaak Walton League. Why not let the black clouds of contention move west from the metropolis and center around Chicago for a while? Not all knowledge and wisdom are confined to Manhattan Island.

During the last eighteen months I have explored the southern Appalachian Mountains from Georgia to Virginia. I have really seen much of the remaining wild places. Do you know, I haven't seen an animal except one gray squirrel and two or three rabbits? No deer, no bears, no turkeys, no 'possums, no coons! Are they extinct? The natives say not, but I wonder. I can tell you one thing: whatever thinned them out, they didn't starve to death. If Dr. Hornaday had had his way down there, that beautiful region would now be stocked with native animal life, not to be enjoyed at the dinner-table, but in their natural places and by a better educated and more enlightened American citizenry.

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"A

Rounding up wild horses on Escalante Desert. Mare and colt being run into horse trap

Wild Horses as Scenery

By RUFUS STEELE

In new Zion Park mustangs vie with mountain marvels in visitors' eyes

LL tourists this way, please. Zion Lodge passengers will take the first auto stage, Bryce Canyon visitors the second one. Wild-horse chasers will take the other stages; but first line up to receive rules and regulations, saddles and sombreros, lunches and lariats. Remember, you're to think twice, then go as far as you like at your own risk."

Some such announcement as this, as this, sooner or later, may greet the tourists who drop off the train at Cedar City, Utah, the gateway to the new Zion National Park and sundry other wonders that are included in the Zion Park tour. The Government, the good folk of Cedar City, and the Union Pacific, which built the branch road in to Cedar, experienced the fulfillment of their hope that the first wide-open season would show the visitors streaming homeward full of enthusiasm over what they had seen; but no one seems to have anticipated the tourists' interest in what has proved to be a sensational attraction. The wild horse-the real, ownerless article that has never looked through a bridle and that has never spent a night in a stable in his life -takes rank, at the end of the first active summer in the new park region, along with Zion's Great White Throne and the natural painted palaces of Bryce Canyon.

The hardy ranchmen of southwestern Utah are surprised and delighted. They had realized that some day the world

would force a path into their scenic wonderland, but to them mustangs have always been just mustangs, and it was only when the tourist invasion was upon them in earnest that they began to understand that a band of wild horses, comprising a prancing, sagacious old stallion and his harem of clean-limbed, free-running mares, which could belong to anybody for the taking, was something to get excited about. Visitors about to depart for their homes in the over-civilized Eastern States began to say to the ranchmen: "But suppose we want to come back next summer and chase mustangs until we catch us a few of these wild beauties. Are you prepared, for a suitable compensation, to furnish the saddle animals, the gear, and the knowhow?" And the puzzled ranchmen, looking hard at the earnest faces of the visitors and then out into the shimmering desert with its significant specks dancing in the distance, grinned and answered, "Shore 'nough, friends; why not?"

It was after the visitors had made the acquaintance of the glowing peaks and domes of Zion, as a rule, that they caught their first glimpses of the wild bands. The auto stage would emerge from Zion Canyon and begin the second leg of the new park's tour, a hundred miles of road that crosses sage-brush desert and the Prismatic Plains to the Kaibab Forest and the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. Off in the sage the travelers would discern moving objects

which did not appear to be cattle. Sometimes, on a rock or a mound, an unmistakably equine figure would be silhouetted against the sky. As they watched the lookout would take alarm, leap down and lead his flock off at a pace never effected by domestic horses while grazing, leaving a thin cloud of desert dust in the air.

"Look at those horses!" somebody would exclaim. "They must have broken the fence and got out of their pasture."

The driver would push back his sombrero-all Zion auto stage drivers wear broad sombreros-and laugh. "Those broomtails probably never were inside a fence in their lives," he would explain. "They're mustangs."

"That must be awkward when they're needed in a hurry. Who is their rightful owner?"

"Why, you, ma'am; or the gentleman on the back seat who thought the chuckwalla we passed was a young alligator. The whole flock will just naturally belong to anybody who wants them-and can catch 'em."

And, to the astonishment of the driver and other natives, the visitors watched for wild horses for the remaining three hundred and fifty miles of the tour, and asked so many questions that they were like encyclopædias on the subject when they got back to Cedar City.

There were plenty of things to be learned things of absorbing interest to those to whom a wild horse on the hoof

was not only a new sight, but an absolutely new creature on their mental horizon.

The wild horses have been there always-almost. The accepted theory is that they are descended from horses that escaped from Coronado and his men as the Spanish adventurers moved up the Pacific coast in 1540. Horses were not native to America-originally the Indians had none. Through the centuries. the horse of the Western wilderness has developed lines and a character of his own; but to this day there is frequently found among the mustangs an atavaran animal with the spirit, speed, and unmistakable lines of his pure Arabian progenitors which escaped from Coronado. In spite of the ancient determination of men to make all of his kind captive, in spite of diminishing ranges, of dry seasons, and, latterly, of wanton slaughter by the cattlemen and sheepmen, the wild horse has held his own exceedingly well. He has become so plentiful-and, it is argued, so destructive that in Montana and Wyoming his annihilation by any means has been

sanctioned of the law, and hundreds of him have fallen during the past sum

mer.

It is estimated that between Cedar City and the North Rim of the Grand Canyon, in the general district embraced in the Zion Park tour, at least fifteen thousand wild horses remain. They have not ventured presumptuously out to the populated districts, but the world. has come in to them. The scenic wonders have justified the building of a railroad and highways into the fastness in which are perhaps the finest wild horses in existence. Along no other highway may the traveler by the auto stage or in his own car see a dozen bands of wild horses in the course of a day. The bands usually number from one dozen to three dozen head. The stallion, who has won his mares by fighting, and who holds them by the same primitive law of conquest, is always in command. One or two male yearlings or two-year-olds may be in the band, but no mature stallion may join without first beating down or destroying its leader. A finish fight between stallions, such as ranchmen and

horse-trappers occasionally witness, is an awesome and often a dreadful sight.

The mustangs, living on range grass and sage, nibbling the bark of the quaking aspen, and in times of famine deliberately eating both bark and wood of the cottonwood tree, range in weight from. eight hundred to twelve hundred pounds. There are blacks, bays, whites, and roans. There are splendid palominashorses as yellow as buckskin, with flowing manes and tails of jetty black. There are pintos, too. Three summers ago a band of nine pintos ranged the Kaibab meadows and outlasted the best efforts of the horse-catchers to make them captive. Incidentally, it may be stated that the wild horses are far more difficult of approach than are the Kaibab's black-tailed deer.

The mustangs are fast, cautious, and move under leaders that are sometimes sagacious almost beyond belief. Trying to run them down is usually poor business. In southern Utah and northern Arizona the favorite method has been trapping them at the water-holes. The wild bands are at a disadvantage, because

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the water-holes are not numerous. When a spring is fenced and the gate left open, the mustangs may approach night after night for weeks or even months without entering. In a year or two, if not frightened, they will regularly enter the inclosure to reach the water, but each time only after the stallion has reconnoitered and has given an affirmative signal. The horses enter at a brisk pace, and as soon as they have drunk their fill they gallop out the opening and do not relax their speed until they are two or three miles. away. When the mustangs are using an inclosed spring, the trapper hides in brush or in a hole in the ground so located that his scent will not carry, and when his prizes are inside he leaps out to shoot the gate bars across the opening. The horses are terrified at first, but in a day they calm down. They may be roped and thrown and given a first lesson under the saddle on the spot; but they are more likely to be roped, tied in pairs, and thus removed to a ranch corral, to be subdued in easy stages. Sometimes a wild horse and a tame old mare will be fastened together by hackamores and turned loose. At first the wild one tries to carry the gentle animal to the remotest corner of the desert; but the wild one wears out in time, and the homing instincts of the mare, who knows where oats await, will cause her to bring back the reluctant captive to the ranchman's barn. Often enough the wild horse has his revenge. There are many instances on record where wild horses that had been forced to become members of ranch droves have led the gentle ones off to the freer life of the desert. Certain stallions have made themselves outlaws, with a price on their heads, because of their continued activities in stealing gentle mares for their seraglios.

It was when the Eastern visitor, following a trail up to the West Rim of Zion or down into Bryce, learned that the sleek, handsome saddle animal between his legs was a one-time wild mustang that his joy became full. There was no end of thrill in thinking-with every possible justification-that he was riding the sure-footed and now submissive creature upon the very slope where he had once scampered at his own sweet will before there was a sign of a trail.

Chauncey G. Parry, manager of the gray, low-swung, easy-riding auto stages, was of the opinion that the tenderfeet asked as many questions concerning the wild horses as they did concerning the possibility of throwing a bridge across the Grand Canyon's thirteen-mile width at Bright Angel Point or of the commercial possibilities for a paint mill in the depths of colorful Bryce Canyon. And

no better authority than Parry himself could have been consulted, for since his earliest youth "Chaunce" has roped, trapped, and outwitted wild horses, and has enjoyed as much fame in the southern Utah horse plateaus as has Charles "Pete" Barnum, inventor of the canvas corral trap, in the wild-horse country of Nevada.

"I always have time to talk with a visitor who really wants to know about these mustangs," Chaunce said; "for there is hardly a man whom I respect more than I do the grand old leaders of the wild bands who have foiled every effort to capture them for years. I watch a 'dude' studying some fine specimen at long range through his glasses, or, as often happens, when we are able to glide along with the stage quite close to a puzzled band that would never allow a horseman or an unmounted man to come so near, and if Mr. Dude begins to tremble with excitement and exhilaration I want to get hold of him and shake his hand. He's my kind. Of course, most of the visitors who see the mustangs for the first time and declare they are coming to catch their own will get over that notion before another summer comes; but if an occasional fellow (or maybe a woman) does drift back here and refuses to be shown that the thing is impossible and absurd-well, I guess I'll forget business, dig up the old outfit and helpers, and do all I can to let Mr. Dude enjoy the adventure of a lifetime."

When this horse-loving auto-stage manager has a listener whom he feels will really understand, he leads him out on Bright Angel Point and tells him of a tragedy of the summer of 1924 while pointing out the geography of it. Workers engaged in improving the trail from the North Rim down into the Grand Canyon had seen in a band ranging near the great abyss a splendid young sorrel mare. The more they saw of that horse, the more they longed to possess her. On a holiday they cleverly planned a chase. The sorrel mare was successfully cut out from her band, and found herself with her pursuers on one side of her and the Canyon brink on the other. They closed in to take her at a point where her trail grew so narrow that a man could barely travel it. But the mare pushed straight on along the diminishing ledge. The men spurred ahead to force her back to safety, but none ever laid hand or rope upon her shining coat. She left the ledge, and by and by the horror-stricken watchers heard a thud that came faintly from the rocky Canyon floor, fifteen hundred feet below.

It has become the fashion to turn wildhorse novels into film. Mr. Parry has

had a hand in arranging many of the scenes for which wild horses have actually "sat." He has hidden the cameraman at the water-hole and contrived to get the wild bands to him. He knew how to work, because he was aware that the mustangs liked to drink at least once in three days. On one of these undertakings he discovered from a mountainpeak lookout that a magnificent palomina stallion was leading a band of thirty-eight mares and colts in a distant arroyo. Instantly came the resolve to get that great leader and his extraordinary harem to the water-hole where the camera was to operate, twenty-five miles away. A day was consumed in the planning and many days in executing the plan. But the moment came when the horses, having found themselves turned back from every other source of water, were making straight for the spring where the camera was in wait. Parry himself, from the shoulder of an overlooking mountain, was to signal the cameraman when the band was approaching.

Other desert denizens had planned to drink at that spring that morning-three gray coyotes. They came gliding down to the water and drank their fill, unaware that an excited cameraman was cranking on them through yards and yards of film. From the far high point fluttered Chauncey Parry's signal, but all the cameraman saw was his three unexpected visitors. The horses were nearing the spring. The cameraman raised slightly to see if any sort of signal was discoverable. Instantly he saw the horses; and instantly, although the cameraman sank deep and motionless into his blind, the palomina stallion was aware that something was wrong. He halted his big flock. He moved this way and that, trying the air with his nose. He began to circle the spring. He continued this maneuver, never bringing himself within good camera range and never allowing one of his band to draw a single step nearer. After three-quarters of an hour, during which the cameraman all but perished from excitement and strain, the stallion came to a sharp decision. He flew at his thirsty mares, beat them into right about, took up the lead, and carried them away from the spring and over the desert hills at top speed. There was not the slightest use in trying to do anything further with that band. They had not tasted water in several days, but it was five days more before they slipped down in the dark to a water-hole; and that water-hole was nearly one hundred miles away from the spring where a cameraman met with what he will always regard as the tragedy of his life.

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