December 1938 by National Field Archery Association

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^December, 1938 Corvallis, Oregon Vol. 10

No. 8

Ye Sylvan Archer

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TABU’ OF CONTENTS Page CRUISING IN A SAND BUMP By John WUlard

THE LADIES AND THE TIGER Ry Sasha A. Siemal

NATIONAL MEET STATISTICS

EDITORIAL

HELD ARCHERS OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA By John L. Yount

THE BOYS IN THE LOWER BRACKETS By the Retired Basement Champion

NEW HUNTING RECORD By Paris Stockdale —

THE LIGHTER SIPE OF' ARCHERS Edited by George Brommer’

December, 1938

YE SYLVAN ARCHER

Cruising in a Sand Blimp /??/ .John Willard, Hollywood, California.

I was talking to George Brommers, as we prowled through his collection of ancient yew wood. “You know George—I need a rest. I’d like to go some place—different —for the week end.” He put down a billet, lit a cigarette and replied in his rich unctious bary tone. “How about the desert?” The desert! The idea gave me .pause. My mind quickly pictured a gorgeous spot — an oasis — fringed with palm trees, dotted with swim ming pools—the playground for the filthy rich—where unbelievably beau tiful girls romped around in the sun shine clad in shorts. I remember the first time I was there. I met a maiden slim and shapely with hair like bleached wheat, great soft trust ing eyes as blue as Lake Tahoe, a soft little mouth—and a heart like a steering knuckle! “Palm Springs?” I questioned. “What’s the matter with Barstow?” Nothing the matter with Barstow that I knew of. As I remembered, it was a small town where trains went through. Still it was on the desert! Before I could answer, George went on. “And what’s the matter with the Wilhelm boys?” I had him there! Nothing wrong with Ken and Walt. Two desert ar chers, swell shots and gallant hosts. They had asked me over several times to shoot with them, and told me about a desert gondola they had made from an old car which ran swiftly over the smooth desert where one might track down the man eating jack rabbit in safety. I was sold. “When do we start?” “Bill Joy will call for you tomor row morning, then you can pick me up." Bill was to be the third of our party. I couldn’t imagine a better fellow to shoot with although I won dered if he wouldn’t find rabbit hunt ing rather tame after bringing down moose with his bow and broadhead. Bill is a man of research by profes sion and a wood bender by instinct, —differing slightly from George who

is a writer by instinct and a wood cho’-'per by profession. Wc picked up Brommcrs at his home and started off. I was stowed away in the rear of the car with the rest of the fence posts, quivers, blunts and the different curious impedimen ta that seem to be part of the archer’s life. As I fell asleep I heard Bill ask. “Which way, George? Up toward San Berdu?” “Just follow my directions, I know the road. Turn right.” When I came out of my doze the car was speeding along as George and Bill were deep in an argument about wood bending. I looked out. The landscape looked different. There was a late feeling in the air. It seemed to me that wc were going in the wrong direction. Wc were probably in the Canal Zone. 1 called to them. “Do you fellows know where you are going?” Bill grinned at me. “I’m leaving it to George. He’s telling me.” Brommers looked worried as he pol ished his glasses. “These signs seem to be wrong—or something. Pull up, Bill, while I take a look.” The car stopped. Brommers took a look and shook his head. “Guess we’re off the track. I don’t know where we are.” “There’s a gas station down the street.” I urged. “Let’s ask them.” Nothing like that for those two hardy adventurers! That would be much too easy. They wanted it the hard way. Bill said. “Here’s a fruit store. Jump out Jack and ask them the way to San Berdu.” I fell out of the car and as I entered the store I noticed the sign. AJAX POOPOFFULOUS Probably descended from one of the old Greek heroes. I was met by a burly individual who had a collection of the wildest whiskers I’ve ever seen. They ran over his face like alfalfa —circling a nose that suggested a two car garage. He came to me, bowed, showed a couple of tusks through the rough, and puffed in my face.

YE SYLVAN ARCHER

“Ze gentlemans wish ze frutta, non?” Out of that cavernous mouth and nose rolled a breath that stag gered me. A rich blending of garlic, Parmasian cheese and thin sour wine. It burnt me like an acetylene torch and stuck, out like a semaphore. I stalled to hang my quiver on it, then, as the thick vapors enveloped me, I backed up a trifle, fell over a crate of fruit—but got the counter between us. i “No! No!” I gasped. All I want is—” “Ah, you wish ze appul—ze beau tiful appul, yes?” He pleaded and puffed at me impotently as he combed his whiskers. I watched, expecting to see a couple of meadow larks fly out but they were evidently nesting. “Listen, Mr. Poop—poopofflous— can you tell me?” “Si, si, I tell you everything there is not! Anything what is—den I know heem not!” He bowed and turned on his blast furnace. I speck ze Engleesh—partfaitmaw.” “That’s swell,” I agreed. “Wish I did. Can you tell me which way San Berdu lies?” He looked at me blankly. “San Berdu—non—I know heem not.” “Perhaps you’ve heard of San Ber nardino?” I urged. “I know all ze Saints—San Francis —Santa Clar—Santa Barb.—San Luis Obis—and Santa Claus.” He smiled and puffed a cloud of garlic at me. “I nevair hear of zis Santa Berdu.” I was growing desperate. There must be some way of making this garlic destroyer know what I was after. I decided to try him with the association of ideas. I glared at him firmly and thundered. “Think! Think! Think of the San Bernardino dogs in the Swiss cheese mountains. What does that suggest to you?” He brightened and nodded. “Ah! You want ze cheese! I have the cheese from Parma—ze lovely cheese for da spaghetti.” “I don’t want any cheese!” I roared. “Isn’t there anyone around here who can tell me how to get to San Berdu?” “Ein momente! I call zc woman— ze wiff. She knows nothing also. He threw back his head and brayed in a powerful tenor. “Celeste Louisa! Celeste Louisa!” His voice cracked.

December, 1938

“Try Celeste Aida.” I suggested, “But skip the high note.” A woman came through the back door. She was a large female with arrogant breasts and prominent bridge work. She gave us a toothy smile and went into a huddle with the buccaneer. After a second he turned to me in triumph. “Non—she know heem not!” “There must be someone around here—call in some of the neighbors.” “Ah,” as an idea hit him. “Ze bam bino. Ze piccolo bambino! My daughter. Wait—I call heem.” As he took a deep breath I stopped him. “Is her name also—Celeste?” “Non—she is called Santa Anna.” “Fine,” I agreed. “You sing Santa Anna—and I’ll round up the bass with —Santa Lucia.” Before we could begin our duet a vision came into the room. A tall beautiful girl whose classic shapeli ness suggested Diana of the Silver Bow. Dark hair parted over a low white brow gave her face a chaste look which was contradicted by a gleam in her bright gray eyes. She came over to me and smiled. “May I help you? Is there some thing you wish to know?” “Can you tell me how to get to San Berdu?” “Turn East to the third stop light, then North to the Valley Road and follow to San Berdu.” “Thanks Miss Poopoo—er—I mean Miss Poopoff—er—” I sputtered. “Just call me Anna,” she suggested. “It’s easier.” She uncovered the bat teries of her eyes and gave me a broadside. “What were you trying to say?” “Er— I was just wondering if that —er—gentleman was really your father.” She turned and looked at her parent affectionately. “Oh, yes, he’s my dad. Descended from a long line of Albanian pirates. Looks a little like a museum piece with all those furs—but he’s a sweet old thing when you get next to him.” “Definitely—er—I mean undoubt edly,” as I corrected myself. I’d been next to the old gentleman and I knew the power of that garlic blast. But I should call him strong rather than sweet. “Well, I’ve got to be going. I’ve

December, 1938

YE SYLVAN ARCHER

work to do. Anything else you’d like to know?” She looked at me and waited. “Yes—if it isn’t too personal. What’s your job?” “I work on a spaghetti ranch.” She spoke seriously. “Really? How extraordinary—er— I don’t mean it’s extraordinary your working, yod know—1 moan—Vvo eaten miles and miles of spaghetti— but never knew how it was* turned out. How do you make it? She thought a second then looked at me and answered. “First you take a lot of dough— then you squeeze it through some little pipes—and it comes out vermi celli.” She grinned and started to ward the door. “So long, stranger, take care of yourself.” She gave me another smile and glided out of the room with the undulating rhythm of a weed clogged wave. I got in the car and gave Bill the necessary directions. As we sped away, he asked. “Bring any apples.” It was dark when we reached Bar stow. Ken was waiting at the garage. After the usual salutations and hand shakes he asked. “You fellows arc a little late, but we’ve plenty of time and it looks like a fine night. Had your dinner?” We told him we had dined on the road. “All right,” he said, “Get your tackle and we’ll start.” Then Bill and I started a wild feverish search ing for our tackle in the dark. The bows clattered around and slid to the ground—the arrrows were falling out of the quivers, as we pawed for arm guards and shooting gloves. Finally I was ready and strolled over to Ken who was talking to George. “Where’s the desert gondola I’ve heard so much about.” “Right here,” said Ken, nodding at a dark menacing structure that loom ed against the sky. I looked at it and started. “That!” I exclaimed. That?” “What did you think it was?” “Thought it was an oil derrick—or the Leaning Tower of Pisa,” I re torted, as I examined it. Originally it had been a heavy touring car. Now it was transformed by the Wilhelms into a cross between an Egyptian war chariot and a Gargantuan baby car

riage. The tonneau was replaced by a square platform where four arch

ers could stand and shoot—that is, they could if their feet were nailed to the floor. Running around the car over the fenders was a narrow run way. It was designed for sociable archers who might want to skip around and visit with the neighbors. It was guarded on the inside with a railing to keep the hunters from fall ing on the engine. The outer edge was open, thus proving the inalien able right of all archers to fall off the wagon any time it pleased them for any reason whatsoever. High above the radiator on some cleverly designed steel tubing was a small seat. Perched on this scat was a young man with a serious expression and a searchlight. Ken was behind the wheel trying to start the blimp. Bill took the shooting box at the rear. Brommers slumped down by Ken in deep thought. He was worried about the third chap ter of his novel. His heroine was in a tough spot in the loggers’ cabin and George’s problem was to get her away before the heavie arrived. He’ll probably hide her in the doghouse. “Better get up forward, Jack,” said Ken, pointing to starboard. “Good shooting from there.” I nodded gaily and made a grace ful leap for the runway. I had for gotten that I had a six foot bow, a quiver full of blunts and several

YE SYLVAN ARCHER

December, 1938

inches of thickening girth from years young man yelled, “Rabbit!” “All right, Jack,” called Ken as he of uneasy living in Hollywood. I finally scrambled aboard with only pursued the rabbit with the blimp two barked shins. I concealed my and searchlight. “Stand up and give agony under a jocular smile and en it to him.” This wasn’t so easy. The gaged the serious young man with the moment I tried to stand up I nearly searchlight in conversation. went off on my head. I tried to “Gorgeous night, isn’t it?” nock my arrow but the blimp was The young man looked down _i at pitching and I couldn’t. As I tried, me. “No, it ain’t so much. I* I’ve seen. ’ I was conscious of a whistling sound better—but then again I’ve seen near my left ear. It P ----was T>: Bill ” xfrom worse.” This was fine! Here was the sht)otting box.—standing like a definitely an individualist, not ex Viking driving blunt after blunt just actly rugged, but nevertheless an in past my ear. dividualist. No truckling—no agree “Hey, Bill,” I yelled. “Look out, ing to be polite—just a son of the will you?” desert. “It’s all right,” he called back. “But those stars,” I said, breaking “I’m a dead shot, I’ve missed you into a poetic sweat. “They’re so every time.” close one can almost touch them. The blimp stopped and Ken started Don’t they remind you of the Valkrie to scold us. “Swell lot of archers, Maidens on their winged steeds, you fellows, ... Enough rabbits to start trumpeting their battle cry through and you fellows couldn’t a new world v immortality as they carry the dead hit a one.” We tried to explain but heroes to Valhalla! Look at them!” he went ... . on. .... “Why, the first time “No. They look just like stars to Chester Seay was up here he hit five me.” of them. And that bunch from Ohio I changed the subject. “What’s —Curt Hill and Carl Oelschleger— the searchlight for?” I asked. how they could shoot. Why, at a “To flush rabbits,” he. replied. hundred yards Carl speared a jackass “Of course,” as my mind took a on the rump.” nautical leap. “And when a rabbit “What’s a ‘fanny shooter’ supposed ‘sounds’ I suppose you holler ‘Blow’.” to do?” cracked George. He never He looked down at me without en lets a chance like this go by. The thusiasm. “No. I just yells rabbit.” serious young man with the search light had been playing it over the The blimp started down the street. It ran smoothly. One could feel the desert as we talked. A small rabbit jumped from a bush. The search tremendous power beneath the hood. This was the life. I felt like a Ma light hypnotized him. He sat on his haunches looking at us—frozen. He harajah atop an elephant. Now we were on the broad highway. The had one lop ear. oyersize truck tires gave the sensa “All right, Jack,” growled Ken. tion of velvety security. Suddenly “Take him.” I took full draw and Ken yelled. “Hold on, everybody.” careful aim, but the little fellow sat He steered the blimp off the road. there like he was begging and his With a terrific clatter we plunged lop ear did the rest. It was too down a ditch, ran over a couple of much. I shot carefully and missed railroad ties, smashed a young tree him. The boy turned off the light and were out on the desert. and the rabbit vanished. I turned apologetically to the others. “Sorry. I’d always believed the desert to Guess the elevation fooled me—or be smooth, a series of gently curving hills. This desert was different. It something.” was full of holes and cracks and we The young man leaned down and seemed to fall in every one of them. said in a low accusing voice, “You I held on with both hands and had missed him on purpose.” I looked at a Mongolian toe hold around the him and replied in a voice that only railing with my left foot. The he could hear. “Suppose I did. Ever searchlight was playing over the own a dog with a lop ear—who could desert and suddenly a long-legged sit up and beg?” animal jumped from a bush. I “Yeah. His name was Sport.” thought it was a kangaroo, but the “And this little rabbit. He was

December, 1938

YE SYLVAN ARCHER

quite young, wasn’t he? Very young. Perhaps—” I then dropped my voice a full octave to get that rich tremolo effect that actors use when they are trying to be sincere. “Perhaps he has a—mother. Maybe she’s wait ing for him. Anyway he’s home now —with his little grey mother.” I paused a moment, then added, “Guess I’ll get down and find my arrow.” “Never you mind about the arrows, Mister.” The serious young man’s voice was unexpectedly ____ warm, ....... “I’ll the morning and pick them up in th? ------ ‘ , bring them over to Ken. You just go on shooting—and missing.” On our way home Ken slowed up the blimp and the young man climbed down. “Got to go home now. Mo ther’s waiting for me.” He gave me a friendly grin and ran off in the darkness. We parked the blimp and shed our tackle and got to bed. I had a room to myself on account of my ability as a snorer. I was tired and it seemed that I had just closed my eyes when there was a knock at the door and Brommers entered looking like the Ghost of Banquo. “Six o’clock, Jack. Time to get up.” I sprang out of bed and started to sputter. “What do you mean? I just got in bed—just closed my eyes a moment ago.” At this moment I detected a sav oury odor filtering into the room from the kitchen. Grilled ham and roast ing coffee! I have a failing—had it since my birth. Whenever I go without food for ten or fifteen hours I get a pain in my stomach. I hur ried on my clothes and dashed into the kitchen. There was smiling Bill Joy working on the food department, helped by Mrs. Wilhelm and her two charming children.—a little girl and boy. “Morning, everyone.” I turned to Bill. “Didn’t know you could cook, Bill.’ “Oh, yes,” he affirmed modestly. “I’m probably the best camp cook in the United States and Canada.” I looked at the table and believed him. Great thick slices of succulent grilled ham! Towers of golden waffles! Pots of steaming coffee! At Ken’s suggestion we sat down and were helped by his wife. There was silence for a time broken only by the grind-

ing of great jaws as four voracious archers started to destroy groceries. The conversation wasn’t brilliant, being confined to short snappy re marks. “Gimme the ham.” “Pass the biscuits.” “Who’s hiding the coffee?” “Where are the waffles?” Finally three were satisfied and went out leaving me to finish. As I was attacking my eleventh waffle I no ticed the little girl and boy staring at me in horrified amazement. They had probably never seen a really first class trencherman at work. I could read the little girl’s mind. She was thinking, “My gracious! Sup pose when I grow up I should marry a man like that! Why, he’d eat me out of house and home!” In the boy’s eyes I caught a gleam of envy. As I joined the others for a cigar ette, a dog strolled out of the garage and came over to Ken and looked at us. He was a behemoth—a cross be tween a Siberian flea hound and a timber wolf. “This is Flash,” said Ken, giving him a playful slap that would have floored an elephant. “Just a pup. Only weighs a hundred and sixty, but he’ll grow up.” “Nice doggy,” I smiled, as I ex tended my hand. “He is a big fellow, isn’t he?” said Bill. “Bet he takes a lot of care—and a lot of food.” “On the contrary,” defended Ken. “He’s easy to take care of and he’ll eat almost anything.” “And very fond of children,” cracked Brommers. “Eat right off your knee—right off your hand, I suppose,” said Bill. I withdrew my hand. For some mo ments the dog had been looking at me in a sinister manner. His eyes were narrowed to slits of obsidian and the hair on his neck was stand ing up! As the others went after their tackle I thought I’d better not move lest I frighten him, so I stood at ease, leaning on my bow, trying to stand still. Presently Flash came over and sniffed at my heels. He gave a loud “Whoosh” and then my bow caught his eye. It was an osage bow backed with rattle snake skins. It seemed to fascinate him. He cir cled around looking at it—then he got on his belly and howled at it— (Continued on page 10)

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December, 1938

The Ladies and the Tiger .By Sasha 4. Siemal, Rio de Janerio, Brazil

Another hunting season is over and a few more adventures and adven turers arc added to the old ones. But this time it was a little differ ent. So far ladies only had come to hunt with me in the company of their husbands. Miss Helen Post and Miss Edith Bray came without chap erons. This, I take it, is a tribute to my age and to my sterling character. Envious friends point out that the confidence of such charming young ladies was easily gained in my case; that they put me down in the class of a college professor, competent and trustworthy beyond a doubt, dull of soul and without glamor. All I can say is that I had a most wonderful time, and so, I trust, did the ladies. The only losers were the tigers; there aie three less of them to begin with, and the survivors see no humor in any reference to the marksmanship of ladies from Long Island or from Philadelphia.

I said that the ladies were young and beautiful. More than that, they had intestinal fortitude, to use a much abused expression. They had more plain guts than some big “he-men” who have hunted with me. Of course, real out-of-doors sportsmen like Col. Theodore Roosevelt, Lincoln Ellsworth and others had more endurance and more experience, but the average re spectable citizen would have been hopelessly outclassed by my charm ing American guests. Old Tiger-Man himself had to work hard to keep up his reputation as a hunter. I must confess that they were a bit noisy for a staid person like my self, but I wouldn’t have missed the experience for anything. The ladies shot three tigers, a mountain lion, marsh deer, tapir and lots of smaller game and birds. I used the spear only for pinning down some of the badly wounded cats. They would have died within (Continued on page 7)

The Ladies and the Tiger.

December, 1938

YE SYLVAN ARCHER

National Meet Statistics By K. E. Palmatier, Kalamazoo, Michigan At the national meet in San Francisco a questionaire was passed out to the archers for the purpose of gathering information of interest to those who attended and more especi ally to those who did not. I am sorry that I do not have complete informa tion from all of the archers present at the meet. This report will cover eleven of the archers who were in the first thirteen places. Two of them did not turn in their questionaires, or did not take part in the last day’s shoot. All eleven archers used yew bows. Ten of the eleven bows were joined in the handle. Seven of the eleven archers used bows with straight ends. Seven of the eleven archers used the same bow for all rounds. The following is a list of the bow lengths and their weights. I have inclosed all the information about each archer in parenthesis. (5 ft. G in. -12 1b. and 5ft. Gin. -38 1b.) (5ft. 10 in. -55 1b.) (G ft. 1 in. -42 lb.) (5 ft. 11 in. -55 1b.) (G ft. 1 in. -4G lb.) (5 ft. 10 in. -42 lb.) (6 ft. -48 lb.) (5 ft. G in. -49 1b. and 5 ft. 5 in. -39 1b.) (5 ft. 6 in. -40 lb. and 5 ft. G in. -36 lb.) (G ft. -42 1b. and 6 ft. -38 1b.) (6 ft. 54 lb.) Five of the archers used semi-flat bows. Five used longbows. One used a modified English bow. Nine of the eleven used points of aim. Two used sights. Eight used shooting gloves. Three used tabs. Nine of the eleven used arrows made of Port Orford cedar. One used arrows of Norway pine. One used steel arrows. Eight of the archers used arrows footed with beefwood. One used arrows footed with pur ple heart. Four archers used arrows with a

four point splice, Five used arrows with two point splice. A report for the ladies will follow in another article.

The Ladies and the Tiger (Continued from page 6) a few seconds, but might have killed .my dogs if I hadn’t used this precau tion. A real spear fight where I could show off and be admired by the ladies unfortunately did not happen, but we had lots of thrills running through thick brush after angry tigers and facing them at a few feet distance in tall grass. Some of you boys have been through these adventures yourselves, know the shaky feeling in the knees; know that it takes a good man to face the music. Make no mistake, those two girls could take it. , Soon I will return to the U.S.A. In tux or tails I will tell hunting stories to my audiences, who consist mostly of ladies. I will be admired by them for my courage, and of course I won’t object to that. But underneath I will wonder if a large part of that audience wouldn’t do as well as Miss Post and Miss Bray did in the field, and better than that no man can do. My only consolation is that they did not want to try to use the spear on those big cats. They agreed that a spearfight was some thing reserved for men. And I drew a sigh of relief. I am sorry that I can’t give my archer friends the story of a bow and airow hunt this time. You must re member that when I have guests in the field it is my job to see that they get the game they are after if it is possible for me to do so. I have very little time for private amusements on such occasions. Another year I hope io do better, and I look forward to seeing a lot of you again. I have not forgotten that I am still the ti tular head of the Lower Bracket Boys, and I can assure you that never was (Continued on page 15)

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December, 1938

Editorial WE WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR

Broniir.ers Sells A letter from George Brommers tells us that he has sold his place of business to Wm. A. Joy, who will carry on as Southern California yew distributor in addition to taking care of the Brommers mail order business. Brommers is now going back to the production end, and will spend his time equally between Oregon and Northern California. He also intends to engage in the production of Port Orford Cedar and redwood and myr tle burls, most of which will be dis tributed through the Los Angeles of fice. Mr. Joy is building a new shop as well as providing more ample stor-

age facilities. Mr. Joy is well known among arch ers, having traveled extensively as lecturer for a Philadelphia dental concern. He has visited nearly every club on his travels, and knows many individual archers. Lately he has moved to Los Angeles with Mrs. Joy and their son Billy. Bill Joy’s new address is 9708 South Hoover St., Los Angeles, which will also remain the permanent mail address of George Brommers. Russ H'oogerhyde, on Oct. 8, gave an exhibition at Alley Pond Park, N.Y.

Cartoon Contest On this page is the first of a ser ies of twelve cartoons by A. J. Cosner, Phoenix, Arizona. Ye Sylvan Archer will give a year’s subscription for each of the three best titles for this cartoon that are February 1, 1939.

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Cartoon by .4. J. Cosner, Phoenix, Arizona

December, 1938

YE SYLVAN ARCHER

Southern California Field Archers By John L. Yount, Secretary

Attendance Growing Sunday, November 20, was another red letter day in, the life of the F.A.A.S.C., because the attendance at our tournament, which was held in Redlands, reached a new high of 89. The turkey shoot in the after noon drew enough late comers to bring the total taking part during the day to 125. This was in spite of the fact that a large target tournament was being held in Los Angeles at the same time, with the result that there was not, by any stretch of the imag ination, over a half dozen target shots in the whole 125. To anyone still doubting that there is reason for our existance the foregoing figures should be food for thought. The tournament results were as follows: The ladies round was won by Glenn Curtis, with a score of 108. Eva Bedwell’s 99 made her a very close second, and Helen Daulley’s third place 95 worried them right smart. There were 19 women shoot ing. If many more turn out regularly your secretary would suggest a cham pionship division similar to the men’s. Ladies, can’t you get enough more regular attendants whom we can be certain of at each tournament, so that you can have a “Champ” class? Just to start an argument, I might say that if we did have a class and we took the scores of the November 20th tournament, the members would be the three above named plus Mar garet Quayle, Dorothy Ahman and Mabel Wilhelm. The men’s Championship class was won by Howard Hill with a new course record of 289. The former record was 255, held by Bernie Ah man, so you see that the boy really was shooting. Second place was won by Volus Jones, with a nice 240. Howard to date has the enviable rec ord of five gold bars and one silver bar, plus his championship medal, in ten starts. In checking over the records, there is another interesting thing I ran across, and that is that the general division first place is occasionally won by a score that takes the big boys in-

to camp, What a feeling that must be! The Board of Governors decided that at each tournament in the fu ture the championship class should put on some sort of an event so that all the lesser lights may watch and take lessons. Here is your cast of characters for the January meet: Howard Hill, director; Ken Wilhelm, Wayne Stotler, Vollus Jones, Vincent Dillon and Bob Fass, the boy who took three consecutive silver bars and then skidded out of the class with a low score but promptly redeemed himself at the next meet. The General Division results were: The above mentioned Bob Faas with 225, Roland Quayle, second with 222; and Bernie Ahman, third, with 219. Some competition. I might mention three more scores that were above 200, Bill Morrow’s, Jess Quayle’s and Walt Wilhelm’s. I would hate to risk much money in guessing the winner of the next tournament. Our archers are getting plenty good. Turkey Shoot a Success The afternoon turkey shoot was the sixth annual one held by the Redlands Archery club and seemed to be as big a success as usual. There were trick targets so marked as to make it a game of luck rather than skill. Also, there were skill shots, although some claimed you had to be lucky to hit them. Maybe you did, as lots of things can happen whan you are shooting at 40 yards at a balloon dangling on a ten foot string and a nice little breeze blowing. Anyway, I bet you never put your teeth into a better turkey—at least Dan Schacht’s was most delicious. First Team Tournament Sunday, November 27, the Pasadena club challenged Redlands to a team shoot on Pasadena’s new roving course. It was very much Pasadena’s day. Redlands lost 8 to 1. This being a new style of team round you might be interested in a little explanation. The rules used were strictly those of golf. Each club had three twomen teams, shooting in foursomes, (Continued on page 15)

YE SYLVAN ARCHER

Cruising in a Sand Blimp (Continued from page 5) then he crouched—and pointed. Fin ally he came over and as he lifted his paw to give it a swipe I whirled the bow out of his reach and shook a playful finger at him. “No! No! Be good or Papa slap.” Perhaps it was my gentle voice— perhaps he’d been yessed all his life —perhaps it was the rattle snake backing—but whatever it was he suddenly became friendly, broke into a doggy grin, jumped at me and near ly knocked me over to show he’d found a pal. For the rest of the day Flash was my shadow. He was ob sessed by my bow. As long as I held the bow out of his reach he was sat isfied to give it an occasional med itative glance, but any time I put it down or leaned it against the car he would start to stalk it and about the time he was ready to break into the dog song “Treed,” I would rescue my bow. As we were starting Ken’s brother Walt drove up. Walt is a serious faced bronzed young giant—an ac complished hunter—a writer.—and a watcher of dreams. Bill and Walt took their places on the runway. George took his usual seat by Ken, wondering how he could get his heroine out of the doghouse. 1 parked the body in the shooting box. I had it all to myself except for some bows and quivers. It gave me more room to fall around. As we started Flash hurled him self through the air, landed on Brom mers, knocked his hat off and smash ed an ear. He slid into the shootingbox and was glad to see me. In a frenzy of affection he tried to push me off the blimp and wagged his tail so violently he nearly knocked George off his seat. Then he calmed down and started to lean against me. First he’d stand on my feet and I’d push him away as well as I could while the old blimp was bucking like a bronco. To keep from being thrown out I had to crouch and hold on with both hands. Then Flash would lean against me and I couldn’t budge him. Finally I got a cramp in both legs and sat down on the floor. Flash promptly sat down on me and was content. I couldn’t move him. I pushed—cursed—pleaded—to

December, 1938

no avail. He’d just grin at me in his fashion and swab my face with a couple of yards of tongue. Then he got bored and started to snarl himself with the bows that were sliding around the floor of the car. I was too busy holding on to do anything but watch. He played around, got one bow through his hind quarters, another around his middle and wore the third as a col lar around his neck. Every time he’d turn for my approval some of the bows would poke Ken or George in the neck, calling fervid curses from those gentlemen. I yelled and tried to explain that it was the dog. Ken yelled back. “That’s all right. If he gets in your way, just throw him out.” I tried it, but Flash thought I wanted to play and nearly threw me out! The rabbits started to jump from the bush. We stopped, untangled the dog from the bows, and then Walt, Bill and Ken started to work. Ken from the driver’s seat potted rabbits nonchalantly, while Walt and Bill did some fancy shooting, hitting their rabbits on the jump. As soon as we got back I creaked off the blimp and got in our car be fore Flash could follow me. We gave farewell to our hosts and start ed home. We enjoyed every moment of our weekend. I went into this adventure a normally healthy man— but soft. I came out much harder but still normal outside of a couple of floating kidneys, a submerged liver and broken arches. But it was fun, good clean fun with plenty of laughs and as soon as the doctor straps my various organs and bones back into place I’m joining Ken and Walt and Flash in a hunt for the wild jackass, and I’m rarin’ to go! Dr. C. H. Bullock, South Croydon, England, says, “All your readers would, I am sure, be very pleased if you could increase the size to 40 or 50 pages.” Yes, we also would be very glad if we had enough subscrib ers to justify enough advertisers to justify forty or fifty pages. And we could fill them if we had the adver tisers and the subscribers.

The New York Archers shot the Pope-Poung round on October 30.

December, 1938

YE SYLVAN ARCHER

The Boys in the Lower Brackets By the Retired Basement Champion

Left to right, Ilda Hanchett, George Miles, Margaret Rancl, Jack Willard. A whole club of bracketeers in fact, and the ladies are included. T am speaking of the Los Angeles Archers Club, one of the country’s oldest and at one time one of its largest. Not that the club goes in for size. With a present membership of fifty the books are closed and new mem bers are admitted only sparingly from the waiting list. Nor does this in any way indicate exclusiveness, the idea is to have as many congenial mem bers as are readily accommodated on the limited space of the Rancho city playground. What makes the Los Angeles club interesting is the fact that stress is placed on having a good time, with scores exceedingly secondary in im portance. Nobody attends from a sense of duty, but the first Sunday of every month attending members are there for a full day of fun. I will illustrate. As a good many archers know, the writer is a super-efficient and famous coach. By preference I coach the ladies; I like them, and they should like me. Some do, but at that I have learned to use a certain amount of discretion.

I have learned, for instance, that at a major tournament the best coach in the world is lucky to escape with his life. Even at some sectional tour naments the ladies en masse are quite apt to have their enthusiasm for in struction under good control. Of course old timers like Genevieve John son, Bea Hodgson and Audrey Grubbs have reached the stage where they refuse to worry about their scores. The Los Angeles Archers not only refuse to worry, but they know a good coach when they see one. November 7th, I sauntered over to the ladies line. I could see that they had the mak ings of an excellent C team, and I told them so. , Well, shooting was suspended of course, but not for the purpose of ex termination. Instead Ilda Hanchett brought me a chair, Margaret Rand lit my cigarrette, and Gene Bacon eagerly inquired about details. I will tell the world we got our C Team, and November 13th we tried it out at the S.C. shoot in Pasadena. The Lower Bracket Ladies’ team consisted of Ilda Hanchett, Gene Ba con, Margaret Rand and Neenah Moreton. Unfortunately they didn’t lose, but if they concentrated on their score they had a funny way of show ing it. It was an exceedingly noisy team, Miles, Clark, Brotherton and Rand fared better and hit the bottom with a gratifying thump. The sur plus was incorporated into a selected and well qualified doghouse team. Willard, Parker, Breest and Rohman strove mightily and were handsomely trimmed. I wonder if other clubs wouldn’t be better off if they put less stress on scores and more on congenial compan ionship and fun. The Los Angeles club has excellent archers, Ellwood Mould is at all times a threat to the top notchers and Willard Bacon is crowding Larry Hughes. Ilda Han chett is an ex-champion and Mar garet Rand is a comer who has near ly arrived. Chester Seay can shoot when he wants to, which is seldom. A lot of others are in the same class. But never have I heard of any record

YE SYLVAN ARCHER

scores being made on the home range. That’s the place to relax and to practice. Lunch hour is something to look forward to. Ted Rand, the secretary, is an army engineer in charge of flood control, and he comes out to forget his griefs. Also he cooks the coffee, and it is very good, though a humorist like Jack Willard is apt to grumble that he hopes Ted’s dams are stronger than his coffee. But Jack is a born grumbler and we take that into account. Then there was the matter of a soup-can medal presented to George Miles. What it was for I do not know, and doubt that anybody else does. But the presentation ceremony was something to treasure. Jack Willard made a speech. The medal was duly pinned on. Margaret Rand and Ilda Hanchctt kissed the guest of honor on the right and left cheek, and photo graphs were duly taken. I should add that I am promised a copy of that photograph, and it is supposed to appear at the head of this page. If it does not you will know that either Ted Rand forgot to deliver it, that George Miles found it and desroyed or—most likely—that J. E. Davis just plain lost it. So we will see. (Ted,* George and I all escape the doghouse, see picture--Ed.) It would have been a perfect day for your correspondent except for one slight mishap. After having my ears inspected in the morning I was given the usual two clean hankies. I was supposed to disgorge the slightly used ones and thought I had. Well, one was overlooked, and you know the rest. Fat chance I will be given to forget it either. Be that as it may, if any of you archers happen to be in Los Angeles the first Sunday of the month, be sure to drop in at the Rancho play ground. We can’t promise you a lot of high scores to witness, but you will have an outstanding good time.

December, 1938

ed by the Ohio Archery-Golf and hunting Association, Saturday, No vember 19, to take a bag of game consisting of 71 rabbits and two pheasants, at the State Public Arch ery Shooting Grounds near Norton, Delaware County, Ohio. And to think, but three years ago two im mortal words, “Oelschleger Rabbit” (the first rabbit legally taken with bow and arrow in Ohio), when men tioned excited the envy of every arch ery-hunting fan in Ohio. But alas, ’tis no longer such, for the new goal is: “bag limit.” Spurred on by the new secretary’s admonition, com bined with a “do or die” determina tion in retaliation for George Brom mers’ (he’s from California) broad cast that Ohio archery-hunters are in the dog-house, these Ohioans who would not be discouraged by an all night’s rainfall and anticipation of miserable weather were not to be whipped. Their appetites were whet ted; their eyes sharpened; their aim accurate. And now, the greatest hunting party with bow and arrow is history until another year. Summary: 1000 rabbits seen; 5000 arrows shot; 100 arrows lost; 71 rab bits killed (actually registered game taken); 2 cock pheasants felled; not a single shot-gun or rifle shell fired; not a single injury to human body; 929 rabbits and 98 pheasants left slightly frightened for future game propagation and improvement of hunting; enthusiasm and sportsman ship unsurpassed. Water, Water, everywhere, at the start of the day; sunshine at the end. Here’s to the hunting champion, William Mink, Dayton, Ohio, who took three rabbits and two pheasants! But wait, a close second in Eugene Schulz, Garfield Heights, Ohio, with a bag-limit of four rabbits. And the woman champ, Mrs. How ard Stanley (who beat her husband), with two rabbits, one taken on the run. Oh yes, she’s from Dayton, the home of Curt and Millit Hill.

New Hunting Record By Paris Stockdale We boast, but we deliver. Claims for the greatest hunting party ever assembled are backed bs the FACT that 110 archers participated in the fourth annual hunting party conduct-

A new archery book by Paul H. Gorden, “Archery; Sport, Craft and Hobby,” will be on the market by the ■end of March, 1939. D. AppletonCentury are the publishers. The price will be $3.50.

€

December, 1938

YE SYLVAN ARCHER

The Lighter Side of Archery By THE DOGHOUSE PHILOSOPHERS

The Brommers Curse By James Stovall A year ago last July George Brom mers invaded The Oregon Country with peculiar results. He hunted the coon in the darkness of the night, loosing a broadhead at a coon that wore as fine a set of horns as ever were seen on a mule deer. His first illciral arrow struck the horns and he was about to liberate another, when he was set upon by five ruf fians. The builder of the doghouse was thoroughly maligned as an ar cher, as a poacher, as to the quality of his bow wood, as to his veracity and as an author. He was led slowly back to the camp fire and seated be side it and in that position was lost for hours, though the car was within thirty feet of the blaze. It was there, in the presence of his sworn enemies in a cold, dark and unfamiliar wood that Brommers placed his curse upon us. How potent was his curse? It

waited patiently until this Septem ber before it struck three of the clan, Russell Jones, Clair Hamlin and Howard Richards. Chester Steven son and I are next in line and we are treading lightly in the shadows. The day’s work was done and a hasty meal was eaten when the hap less ones drove out into the country looking for rabbits, in deer season. Brommers was forgotten in anticipa tion of the hunt. Good rabbit coun try was to be found at the foot of the hills where the brush is high but rather scattering. A rabbit was seen along the road and they all strung their bows and exercised their rela tive skill on it. Then the strung bows were returned to the car and they continued on their way to the hunting area. The sun had just set when they en tered the rabbit country and they were preparing to stop when from behind a majestic bush of brambles stepped a four point buck. Howard

,rnr 1

Now known as the B-L-U-N-T boys.

December, 1938 YE SYLVAN ARCHER this year a four day open season was held on antelope in parts of the great game reserve in Southeastern Oregon. Daylight slowly crept up the back slope of Hart Mountain, cautiously approached the rim and contemplated the shadows beneath. In the edge of the shadow far below a car slowly and cautiously dodged the rocks and ignored the sage and came to a stop overlooking a dry lake bed about two miles across. The fading shadow re vealed a band of over three hundred antelope grazing near the edge of the sage on the lake bed. Russ Jones and Howard Richards strung their bows, carefully looked in their quivers at fine sets of gleaming broadheads, searching for the offensive Blunt. The sage was high, the wind was right, so they circled to the far side of the antelope band; then slowly ap proached them. All game animals have eyes, but antelope seem to be best equipped of all. The stalkers approached without a sound but the whole band very nonchalantly kept their distance and without any show of alarm, but with a distinct knowl edge of the presence of the boys (Brommers again) they allowed themselves to be herded back toward the car. They slowly edged between the car and the high sage on both sides and ankled into the next lake bed. When Russ and Howard reached the car they found that had one of them remained in the car they could have gotten the limit with a ball peen hammer out of either car win dow. Score—Zero! In a rather sheepish manner each unlimbcred a rifle and that after noon they each got a fine buck ante lope, but they don’t seem to taste right. Maybe it is the lead they used. To prove that they arc still field archers, Russ and Howard stopped in Summer Lake Valley on their way home and killed several ducks and geese with the trusty bow and ar rows. Nothing unforseen happened there or on the rest of the trip home. Can it be that the Brommers Curse has run its course? We hope.

glued the car to the spot and they stared ahead in unison. The buck continued his travels until he reached the exact center of the road, some thirty yards (estimated) ahead of the car, and there he stopped. He stood broadside with his head held high and his chest thrown out, re turning glare for glare with the un fortunate three. These three were very unhappy, each knew the others were feeling bad so they looked each other over to see who felt the worst. The score was even, for long streaks of sorrow lined each face. Howard had killed a feeble minded buck the year before so he exhibited a negli gent interest in this one but Russ and Clair burned with thwarted ambition. They stepped quietly from either side of the car, arrows were knocked carefully, bows slowly drawn by steady hands. (These are two of our best field archers.) The collective aims were perfect, the buck was rig id in his stance, the releases were nearly simultaneous. The one-inten-spiral of the feathers held the stiff spined shafts true in their flight. Clair’s arrow struck behind, the shoulder exactly where it should, Russ’ arrow struck three inches higher. Real glory and a little fame was heaped upon each of them as the ar rows were in flight for such perfect shots. The buck cleared a five-foot fence with a third of his first jump. Russ and Clair picked up their ar rows, looked into each other’s quiv ers, then returned to the car where a single look at Howard’s sad visage made him a blood brother in misery. The “B-L-U-N-T” Messrs. Jones, Hamlin and Richards slowly shed their tears on the way home. A common bond of allegiance and. misery welded the Blunt boys to gether as one, against a frowning, jeering world. Later, however, the ranks became divided. The people of the world look far down at all three, but The Blunt Mr. Jones and Hamlin look still deeper into the murky depths at The Blunt Mr. Richards. Two days after the hunt, Howard’s wife found a broadhead in his quiver, and told. ANTICLIMAX The Brommers Curse Rolls On During the last week of October of

Dr. Pau] Klopsteg visited the New York Archery Club recently.

December, 1938

YE SYLVAN ARCHER

The Ladies and the Tiger (Continued from page 7) a distinction more worthily bestowed. From the last issue of Ye Sylvan Archer I learn that my colleague, Erie Stanley Gardner, has once more distinguished himself by missing the moose. He is a wonderful marksman, Erie is, as long as he isn’t shooting at anything. I have had a lot of pleasure out of your splendid little magazine. It fol lowed my trail right into the Matto Grooso .Jungles, and I was able to keep in touch with old friends in Cal ifornia and elsewhere. If I had my friend Gardner’s easy style of writing and his grand sense of humor I would be delighted to send you contributions oftener. As it is you will have to take the will for the deed. Archery is a wonderful sport and the contacts I have made through it mean a lot to me. P. S. What got into that guy Ken Wilhelm? Last I saw of him he and his brother Walt had the presumption to challenge me for the world’s base ment championship. I showed the two upstarts where to head in.

Field Archers of S. C.

(Continued from page 9) i.e., the No. 1 team of each club shot together and were matched against each other. The two No. 2 teams made a foursome and shot against each other, etc. The winner of each foursome was the team winning the greatest number of targets, and to heck with the total score. In this way each target is a game of its own and the partners really work to gether instead of just trying to roll up a big score of their own. One point is given for the winner of the morning round, another for the win ner of the afternoon round and a third for the team winning the great est number of targets during the day. To find your club’s score, add the points made by its various teams. Let’s try some more of this type of shooting. The Redlands club has announced that it will accept a chal lenge from most anybody, and believe a four or five team match would be better. There has been an epidemic of trick

shooting in Los Angeles lately. Ken Wilhelm’s exploits have attracted the most attention, of course, but a lot of good was also done by Chester Seay and Willard Bacon’s exhibition before the Engineers and Architects Club. Larry Hughes, and he is very good, shot before the Pasadena Athletic Club. Beyond any doubt this form of precision shooting at close range is a most effective way of attracting new interest in archery, and the quality of the audiences reached means much more than appears on the surface. At that Southern Cali fornia is behind the East in this re spect; Russ Hoogerhyde has had practically solid booking for his ex hibitions and lectures for years now, and as a promoter Larry Whiffen. has made the best showing so far.— Contributed.

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YE SYLVAN ARCHER

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December, 1938

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