November 1940

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i i w November, 1940 VoL 12

Corvallis, Oregon No. 7

Ye Sylvan Archer "A magazine for the field archers"

November, 1940

Vol. 12

No. 7

Published the fifteenth of each month for archers by archers 505 North 11th Street, Corvallis, Oregon

Editor

J. E. DAVIS RUSSELL JONES ..

Business Manager

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TABLE OF CONTENTS Page ADD ANOTHER NAME

By Erie Stanley Gardner

1

THE SECRET OF GUT SHOT GAP

By Walt waihelm

5

EDITORIAL

G

OLYMPIC BOWMEN LEAGUE

6

LAST MONTH’S WHO’S WHO

6

FROM JOE COSNER

9

DOGHOUSE DOINGS

By Geo. Brommers ..

10

FROM THE UTAH HILLS

By F. H. Zimbeaux

11

PARACHUTISTS MAY SIT ON ARROWS

12

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November, 1940

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By Erie Stanley Gardner Just about half of the pleasure of a hunting trip lies in sitting in a big half circle the night before, and lay­ ing plans. Each man has his bottle of beer and his pipe.

Well, it was one of those nights.

We talked about past hunting trips and laid tentative plans for a deer hunt this fall. This year we were all going to be pretty busy, and couldn’t get away for as long as we’d like, but next year it was going to be different. We were going to take a real trip next year. Life was too short to put in all of our time money­ grabbing. (I’ve talked the same way for the last twenty years now. It’s always been next year that is going to bring the real trip.)

We discussed broadheads and bow­ strings, silk-backing, sinew-backing, hickory-backing, and rawhide-back­ ing. I told a couple of stories about former hunting trips, then we drag­ ged a lot of exciting hunting adven­ tures out of the limbo of the past.

There was an interval of smokefilled silence. The eyes of the others were dreamy with contemplation.

Jack Roripaugh, the newest addi­ tion to the archery group—a mere neophyte whose experience with the bow was less than forty-eight hours, but a natural shot if ever I saw one— stirred in his chair. “‘JI’1ve_ got quite :nmnrrnw(” he a day ahead of me tomorrow,' said.

No one said anything. We knew what was going to follow.

“But,” Roripaugh went on, “I don’t know as it would make so much dif­ ference if I didn’t get started until ten o’clock. We could be back by ten o’clock.”

Now Jack Roripaugh has a ranch on which there is real hunting. And when you talk hunting in this section of the country, you mean hunting just the way it used to be fifty years ago: Quail running around in huge coveys; rabbits without number, doves flapping lazily upward from sand bars with their peculiar “koo-kookoo”—a short, high-pitched note of plaintive protest, apparently syn­ chronized with each beat of their wings; quite a sprinkling of bobcats

and coyotes.

“Well,” Nienke said positively, “I can’t go.”

Buck said, “I won’t be here. I’ll have to be in Los Angeles tomorrow morning.”

Ed Record’s face was wistful.

“Gosh, I’d like to go, but—” Walt Wilhelm had driven down from Yermo. Hie had his trailer parked out under a shade tree back of the cabins. “I’ll go,” he said. “I ain’t got no business doing it—but I’m going.”

They looked at me. “I’m sorry, boys. I simply can’t make it. I had some work to do over the week-end, and I’d postponed it. It has to go out—beating a deadline. What time would we get back? All right, count me in?’

We looked at Nienke.

Under the silent accusation of our eyes, his moral resistance melted like ice in the sun.

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The smile of triumph!

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We shifted our eyes to Buck. He fidgeted. “I have an appointment, and—Oh, hell, I’ll go.”

“Start at five o’clock?” Nienke asked.

I doped it all out for them. I’d bring the pick-up, meet at Jack Roripaugh’s at five o’clock. That would mean Nienke’s place at quarter to five, leaving my place at four-thirty, breakfast at four. That would mean I’d have to get up at three-forty-five, fifteen minutes to get the others up, half an hour to get breakfast cooked, the bows loaded into the car. I de­ cided to set the alarm for three-fif­ teen.

We sat and talked for a while. A. note of excitement crept into the con­ versation. We began to build air castles.

Walt Wilhelm had never seen the property. We told him stories about it which sounded sim­ ply incredible to him. He knew we were liars. There wasn’t that kind of hunting left anywhere in the United States.

Buck (short for H. R. Buckerfield) of the Western Mechanical Works— another newcomer to archery—also hadn’t been out there. He "was a little more credulous than Walt, but both of them knew we were liars.

It kept getting later, and I decided on three-thirty as time for the alarm.

The party broke up about eleven o’clock. I came down to get my hunting things together, put films in my camera, get my arrows assorted, put some service on a bowstring. I set the alarm at quarter to four.

Then I had a lot of odds and ends to attend to.

I finally got to bed at midnight.

At quarter past four the alarm went off.

A mad scramble, coffee pot on the stove, rushing around pitching things into the automobile in the dark, hur­ rying around to the guest cabins getting people up, opening cans of tomato juice and pineapple juice— 'coffee boiling over—looking at the watch every few minutes.

Then the blow.

Walt’s wife had been feeling badly.

She’d suffered all night with nervous indigestion, and Walt felt that he simply couldn’t leave her. Shucks, half of the kick in the whole business had been anticipating how Walt’s eyes were going to bulge when he saw that country. We discussed it over a

November, 1940

sketchy breakfast. There was noth­ ing to be done. The others were go­ ing to be strung out along the road, waiting for the pickup. Walt de­ cided he’d have to get his wife back to San Bernardino. We rode out and. left him standing there watching us.

I saw his eyes. It was as though we were all going to a funeral some­ where.

Gradually the depression wore off.

There was light in the east, a bank of low-flung clouds oyer the desert which meant it was going to be a hot day. The clouds were a dark silhou­ ette against the steely blue. Then a little trace of color appeared around the upper edge. The lower borders began to assume golden tints, The tang of dawn was in the air.

We left the smooth roads, started, rattling along over washboarded ranch roads, down across sandy washes, stopping now and again for gates. (About fifty per cent of the gates were locked due to the influx of a whole smear of city hunters— the sort of scatter-gun enthusiasts who shoot at everything in sight, trample crops, leave all gates open, and toss burning cigarette butts into dry sagebrush. The farmers used to be glad to see an occasional hunter.

Now, to get to hunt on one of these ranches is so difficult that you have to wait ten years after you know a man well enough to ask him to en­ dorse your note at the bank before you dare suggest the possibility of hunting on his ranch—even with a bow and arrow.)

I don’t know exactly when I start­ ed shooting a bow and arrow—that is, I can remember the occasion clear­ ly, but I don’t know the date. It was either nineteen-twenty-two or njneteen-twenty-three, and I’ve been shooting ever since. But to me, each hunting trip is still a major adven­ ture. I get so interested that the happenings become an overlapping blur, and this trip was no exception.

Starting out in the glow of dawn— strange how loud your feet sound— this stubble is so dry it explodes when you walk on it—how archery has straightened Nienke’s shoulders, and put supple life into his back muscles. Notice the way he walks.

There’s Buck getting a shot. Hurry up, Buck, get that right elbow back inside the line of the arrow—full draw now, That’s it. Can’t see the

November, 1940

YE SYLVAN ARCHER

arrow, but can tell from the way Buck’s standing that it’s a good shot.

Now he’s running.

Nope, slowing down to a walk. Too bad. He missed.

Ed record whirls and shoots, all with one graceful, breath-taking mo­ tion. Strange how game can realize when the day’s going to be a veritable scorcher. Jump them once, they head into the deep shade of the big cactus patches, and they’re gone for the day.

This place is midway between ocean and desert. The desert influence is predominating now. We’ll have des­ ert weather for three days, then it’ll turn cold. We’ll be having frost in another week or two. Right now it’s hot and dry. Gosh, it’s dry! Mouth is filled with shreds of blotting paper.

Try to spit, and nothing comes out except dust.

I decide I’ll drift over to see how Jack Roripaugh is coming. He may need a little coaching on distances.

There he is. He’s getting a shot.

That’s the boy. Look at the way that arm comes back, that smooth, steady spread. And look at that ar­ row leap from the bow, going straight and with hardly a sound. Look at

Congratulations!

3

the expression on his face. That keen, deadly concentration, the ex­ pression of a natural hunter. You can tell he isn’t thinking of anything else when he is on the trail of game.

No wonder they say he’s one of the best trackers in this part of the state.

“Hello, 'Jack, what did you shoot at?”

“Rabbit.”

“Close?”

“So-so.”

We go down and pick up the arrow.

I see the tracks of the rabbit. The shot was about forty yards. The arrow missed by about two inches.

“I’ll learn,” Roripaugh says.

Give me just a little time.”

We fool around a bit, getting an occasional snap shot.

It’s getting frightfully hot—one of those freak September days when hunting is over almost before it starts.

“Going to be a lot of quail here this fall,” Roripaugh says. “We’ll get some good shooting. Bet we can have a lot of fun with bow and arrow.”

“And how,” I tell him.

We start looking over the country.

“There’s a road goes up here,” Rori-

Left to right—Ed Record, Jack Roripaugh, Al Nienke.

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paugh says, “in case you want to get up to the head of this canyon where the walls come together. You can nearly always find coyotes com­ ing back through this pass into the mountains if you get up there earlyenough.”

I’m disappointed and trying not to show it. I did want Roripaugh to really connect with something. He’s an old-time hunter from away back, a man who more or less instinctively knows the habits of game, knows— well, it’s too late now. Everything’s bedded down for the day. We’re just trudging along because we hate to go back. There’s something over there.

Where? To the right, over there behind that sagebrush.

Something moved. It’s a jack rabbit. It’s a long shot, but: “Let him have it, Jack.”

He pulls back his arrow, and makes a perfect release. The arrow went right where he wanted it to, but he has a lot to learn yet about measur­ ing distance in terms of arrow tra­ jectory. The arrow falls far short.

The jack rabbit stands up to look.

Jack pulls another arrow out of his quiver. That’s one way you can tell a real hunter. He manages to get out his next arrow with a mini­ mum of fumbling. Looking at him, you’d think he’s a veteran archer.

This one is as much too high as the other one was too low. It went over the rabbit and down into a barranca thick with brush, one of those little washes with steeply precipitous banks.

The jack rabbit goes away.

Jack and I walk over in that di­ rection. I look at him to see if he’s feeling a little disgusted. His lips are just tight with grim determina­ tion. “I’ll get it,” he says. “Give me another week, and I’ll surprise you. I’m getting the hang of it now.”

I explain to him that his release is all right, that when he was shooting yesterday at fixed distances, he was doing some marvelous shooting, that the shot he made at the cottontail rabbit in the wash was at just about the distance he’d been familiar with so he made a good shot. But this jack rabbit was a hundred and twen­ ty-five yards away, and it’s darn hard to drop an arrow on him.

That’s the way things go. There we were crashing along through the brush, me handing out a line of con­ dolences, Jack feeling just a little

November, 1940

sore at himself despite the fact that he knew he shouldn’t, both of us thinking the hunt was over, and here adventure was just around the cor­ ner.

'Jack picked up his short arrow.

We walked over to the edge of the barranca. It was a ten-foot drop down into a thick patch of tall sage­ brush and greasewood. We stood and looked it over. I saw a little ledge about five feet below to which I could jump. I put my bow down on the ground, sat down, slid one hip over the edge of the bank, dropped to the ledge, and sent a clatter of dry earth and an occasional rock rolling into the sagebrush below me.

Something moved.

I glanced up the barranca. A tawny, yellow streak came out of the deep shade as though it had been shot with a catapult.

“Coyote!” I yelled.

I looked up at Jack.

The edge of the barranca hid every­ thing from me except the upper part of his bow and the top of his hat. I saw the bowstring coming back, saw the bow tip bend to a full arc.

The coyote was going like a streak of light, but he couldn’t get up the bank that way. Yes, he could, too.

At any rate, he was going to try it.

And I heard the twang of the bow­ string.

Jack’s arrow went pretty close to where the coyote should have been, hut the coyote was scrambling up that steep bank, and he’d turned a bit to one side.

I’m so disgusted I could put cream and sugar on a dish of tenpenny nails and chew them easily.

“You can’t shoot with a bow and arrow the way you do with a rifle,” I yell. “Couldn’t you see that coyote was going to have to scramble up that bank? Why the devil did you shoot when he was going full tilt?

Why didn’t you—” Oh well, what was the use? The guy just had to learn a lot about shooting with bow and arrow, and what the hell.

The coyote was over the top of the bank but there was still a good steep slope.

He came into sight from where I was standing, going up that slope with long, springy bounds.

I stood there, clinging precariously to a narrow ledge, wishing I had my bow, estimating range, not over forty (Continued on page 7)

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5

The Secret of Gut Shot Gap

By Walt Wilhelm, Yer mo, Califomia (Continued from last issue) After Curtiss gave me the big wink I knew there was something in the wind so I worked over close to him.

“1 think I have some of the stuff,” he whispered. “One of the squirrels dropped a hunk of bark when he hitailed it for the rocks and I believe I got the right piece.”

Each man had picked up every ar­ row he came to and we’d sort ’em out at our shooting position. While we were doing the sorting I whispered to Ken, “Curtiss has some of the dope.”

Ken looked over at Glenn and Cur­ tiss nodded in the affirmative. We were just a few minutes getting the arrows sorted—some' were broken, and many of them were dulled or rolled up on the ends after connect­ ing with the loose rocks that were scattered around on the hillside.

“Hey, Snuffy,” Curtiss asked, “where does a guy get a drink around here?”

“Down in the bottom of the draw,” Snuffy told him, “swell little stream running through those willows.”

“I’m headin’ for water,” Glenn said, “be back pronto.”

We all sat down and had a smoke.

Ken and I couldn’t hardly wait for the big guy to return for we knew he went down the draw for but one pur­ nose, and that was to inspect the hunk of bark.

It had only been a matter of sec­ onds since we left the hillside but the squirrels were beginning to gather again. Among the group was a big gray. There’s no open season on the grays and we were wondering how we’d manage to shoot around the pretty fellow.

It was a stiff climb from the stream to where we were, but Curtiss came bounding up like a young deer.

To Snuffy, who wasn’t wise to Glenn’s jaunt, the big boy looked just like a guy that had gone and had a drink for himself. To Ken and me he seemed to have something up his sleeve.

He buckled on his quiver and braced his big yew bow.

As he thumped the string a few times, he said, “two bits I get a digger before

I shoot six arrows.”

“I’m takin’ it,” said Snuffy, “and bettin’ ’nother two bits that you don’t get any with the quiver full.”

“I’ll call that, and bet you ham and eggs tonight that I get more than you do with the first arrow,” the big guy answered.

“It’s a deal; roll the dice.”

Zing, zing went the bow strings.

Arrows were flying and squirrels were jumping. Ken dropped one just back of the big gray. The bushy tail couldn’t take it and scrammed up a big pine. Ken socked a broad­ head fully two inches into the tree just ahead of him.

“Hold everything there, Ken,” Snuffy snorted, “lay off the monkey foot.”

“Whatdaya mean monkey foot?”

Ken snapped, as he smacked another broadhead into the pine tree.

“We call the grays monkey feet,” Snuffy told him, “because their feet look just like a monkey’s. If you killed one I’d shore as h— get the blame, for some of the mountain guys have accused me of eating gray squirrels already.” ‘‘And of course you wouldn’t do a thing like that,” Curtiss said sar­ castically.

For better shooting positions we kept working back and forth along the dead line that Snuffy had ar­ ranged for us. As soon as I got close to Curtiss I whispered, “what’d you find?”

“Bacon grease,” he hissed, “just common old bacon grease.”

Well, I knew the stuff was good, all right, but was skeptical if Snuffy was using it. When Ken got in range I whispered to him, “The guy’s using bacon grease.” Ken just batted his eves and shook his head; he didn’t believe it, either.

But what shooting we had. There wasn’t a million squirrels, of course, but they kept coming and as we stayed in one place we had the time of our lives. That guy Snuffy put us on the spot when he made us shoot so far but, after all, it was his idea.

(Continued on page 7)

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November, 1940

Editorial We usually do not make excuses when we are late but this month we have not an excuse but a reason for our tardiness. Everything seemed to be going fine and we were con­ gratulating ourselves that for once we would be out on time, but while the compositor was setting Geo. Brommers’ dog house article the linotype just couldn’t take it and the heating unit burned out. Well, we can’t blame the machine much; it has stood a lot.

The Scholastic Archery Bulletin, a mimeographed publication edited by Miss Natalie Reichart of Corvallis, Oregon, began with the October issue.

It will contain archery news and in­ formation of interest to students and teachers.

Lieutenant Clarence G. Thompson, son of Dr. B. G. Thompson, has been appointed archery instructor for his regiment at Fort Bragg, N. C. He found little equipment on hand with which to start practice but found plenty of enthusiasm for the sport.

Kore Duryee has great ambitions, now that he has killed his second buck with bow and arrow and deer are too tame for him, to break into the exclusive Order of Moose Slay­ ers. He was to leave Seattle on the 14th of November for Vancouver, B. C., for another moose hunt with Garrett and De Wolf.

The veteran bowmaker, W. I. King, of Eugene, Oregon, suffered a $200 loss when thieves broke into his workshop and stole bows, quivers, arrows, and carving tools. Mr. King is an excellent wood carver, having won prizes in National exhibitions, and he had a set of very fine carving tools.

Mr. King’s many archery friends throughout the country will be glad to learn that he is recover­ ing from his recent illness and is able to be about his shop for a few hours each day. On a recent visit we found him just tuning up a violin he had just finished and we were privileged to sit in on the maiden performance of the new instrument.

The members of the Sherwood Archery Club have a novel sticker to advertise their club. It seems to be made by photographic process and bears the picture of members.

The only buck killed in the Wash­ ington state archery reserve was the trophy of Donald McKay of Seattle.

We are promised more information about this buck later.

Olympic Bowmen League The Seattle Archers are sponsor­ ing the 14th Olympic Bowmen League mail tournament starting January 12, 1941, and lasting ten weeks.

Entries should be in by January 1, the acceptance of any entries after that date being optional with the committee. The entries will be limited to 50 teams. Entry fee is $5.00 per team.

The League round is 90 arrows at 30 yards at a standard 48 inch tar­ get face, shooting 6 arrows at each end, and it may be shot either indoors or out. Further information and en­ try blanks may be secured from Kore Duryee, Secretary, 301 White Bldg., Seattle, Wash.

Last Month’s Who’s Who Upper left—R. L. Rimer of Silver Springs, N. Y., who was president of the Genesee County Archers, host club for the New York State Archery Tournament in 1932.

Upper center — Central Illinois archers at the annual fall invitational shoot of the Blackhawk Archery club at Decatur, Illinois, on September 27, 1931.

Lower center—The shooting lines at the National tournament, August 17-20, 1926, Polo Field, Bryn Mawr, Pa.; Dr. P. W. Crouch shooting and G. A. Mang of Buffalo, N. Y., with bow in hand.

Upper right—Miss Helen Thomp­ son, archery instructor at the Green­ brier Golf and Tennis club, White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia, in 1931.

Lower right—Yes, of course, you know. It was Roy Case, senior and junior, at Racine, Wisconsin.

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(Continued from page 4) yards—forty-five—fifty.

Twang.

It was Jack’s bowstring. I’d for­ gotten about how smoothly he could get another arrow out of the quiver.

I glanced up at the coyote again, and there was that sight which thrills an archer to the very marrow of his bones—an arrow winging its way against the blue of the sky in a per­ fect arc, headed toward running­ game—and you only need one look to know it was going to be close.

I held my breath. It seemed as though time and eternity halted to watch. The coyote kept going. The arrow swung across the top of its flight and started down. Gosh, I knew it was going to be close. Gee whiz, what a shot. IT’S A HIT! I let out a war whoop when I heard the thunk of that arrow.

It’s only a forty-five pound bow, and it was sixty-five yards to the hit, but the blade of the broadhead was keen as a razor. It was one of those Ken Wilhelm broadheads which are built for penetration, and I’d sharpened them the night before, showing Jack how to sharpen broad­ heads for deer. The arrow isn’t in very far, but it’s far enough. The coyote’s throwing his head back try­ ing to snap at it. He’s staggering— now he’s turning, coming back down­ hill. Now he’s down. I don’t know when I picked my path across that barranca or up the other side, but I’m tearing up there, my face scratched with brush, the smell of sage dust bitterly acrid in the back of my nostrils. I’m running—Jack’s already across. How the devil did he do it? I’m yelling, “Finish him!

Shoot him! Put another arrow on!”

Jack’s outwardly cool as a cucum­ ber, but it needs only one look at his eyes to tell the story. And what a whale of a story it is. A neophyte out on his first actual hunting trip, bagging a running coyote as his first game. Hie socks an arrow right in the coyote’s head. The blade pene­ trates the skull, and the coyote goes down and stays down.

It isn’t just accident back of that shot.

There have been hours of faithful practice. I started him out with a thirty-pound bow, had him shooting for nearly an hour into a

hay bale, not more than fifteen feet away, paying no attention to where his arrow hit, simply building up his pull and release. Then we did some shooting at marks. Then he “grad­ uated” to a heavier bow. He deserves every bit of it. But what a break!

From neophyte to veteran coyote killer in three days.

And did I get a kick out of Jack.

As I’ve said, he’s an old-time hunter.

He tried to be just a little above get­ ting excited. But, boy oh boy, all the way home, all he could talk about was that kill, reconstructing every move he’d made—and every time, as we picked up one of the members of the party, and Jack had an oppor­ tunity to tell it all over again, you could see that it wasn’t the most un­ pleasant chore he’d ever had to do in his life So add another name to the list of . archers.

SECRET OF GUT SHOT GAP (Continued from page 5) We’d kick dirt on them and ac­ tually turn some of them over but never killed or wounded a single one that round. When we retrieved the arrows I gathered several pieces of bark and pine cones but 'couldn’t smell any bacon grease.

Ken was scraping something off a limb with a bfroadhead. Curtiss and I kept our eyes on the bird. Snuf­ fy was so interested in getting his arrows and shooting again that he didn’t suspect we were trying to check on him.

We headed for the other spot around the boulders, the three of us purposely lagging behind so Snuffy would take the lead. Ken turned around and whispered, “It’s candle grease; look on the back of my quiver.”

He’d wiped his broadhead on his quiver and left the stuff sticking there. He’d also scraped so much wood and dirt with it that we couldn’t tell much about what it was.

If Snuffy would have been looking, he’d of seen first one, then the other of us dipping our finger in the stuff and not only sniffing it, but tasting it. I couldn’t smell anything, but it did taste kind of greasy. Curtiss swore it was bacon grease. Ken said he knew it was from a candle.

We done some more shooting. The

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sun was getting1 pretty hot and we gave up trying to find any more of the lure.

“Wihat say, you guys, that we scram over to the shack and put on the nose bag, lay around a couple of hours and come back and smoke ’em some more later,” Snuffy asked us.

He had to ask but once, We’d shot hundreds of times, our muscles ached worse than if we’d shot a double York with the hunting bows. Like the real host that he was, Snuffy rolled up his sleeves and was making sandwiches like a master chef. He’d brought in a chunk of roast meat as big as my hat and was neatly slic­ ing it.

Did we go for that food! “Snuffy,” I said, “did vou ever try bacon grease or tallow candles as a lure for squir­ rels?”

“Are you having a good time or ain’t yuh,” he answered.

I had to admit it was the best time I’d ever had, and the most myster­ ious.

“Well,” he said, “that’s what I want you guys to do, but don’t ask me any questions because I ain’t puttin’ out any information, savvy?”

We were sitting around a big table made from rough planks. As we went into the cabin we unloaded all our outfit on a wood pile out in the yard.' We’d just about finished a sandwich when Snliffy made a dive for the coffee pot that had started to boil over.

For a hurry up job he’d removed a stove lid and placed the pot on the live coals. Cuss words were flying" and Snuffy had his finger in his mouth.

“It would have to be the right fin­ ger,” he said, “now it’ll spoil my shootin.”

“Can’t take it, eh?” Ken said, “making all that fuss over a little burn. Calm down, pal, you’ll forget all about it when you get back shoot­ ing at squirrels.”

Glenn Curtiss had ripped open his sandwich and was sniffing at the meat.

“Hey, Snuffy,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“You wouldn’t eat a gray squirrel, would you?” “ ’Course not. Why?” “Well, how many points did this roast have?”

“Ah, you’re crazy, that’s beef. Mom

November, 1940

Hamrick over at Running Springs cooked it up for me only yesterday.”

“Oh, yeah! Well, they don’t call it beef where I came from.”

Snuffy poured four cups of good smelling coffee and said to Ken, “Scram out to the cooler and grab a can of milk. You’ll find it down un­ der them wet sacks.”

Ken made a dive to do as he’d been told. Snuffy had placed a few small sticks in the stove and was replacing the lid. The slab door of the cabin was standing half open, and was be­ tween Ken and Snuffy. Ken stopped in his tracks and leaned close to the door. He didn’t say anything but kept pointing towards the wood pile.

Curtiss and I were all eyes and craned our necks to get a look. Prior to that moment we’d all just about forgotten the magic lure and was having a good time in general. What we seen on the wood pile quickly re­ vived old thoughts and our curiosity was aroused stronger than ever.

The wood pile wasn’t over three bow lengths from the door and there was a big bushy tail very much in­ terested in Snuffy’s quiver. He was the most handsome fellow I’d ever seen, as he stood there with his tail straight up in the air. Snuffy had the deer skin so full of arrows the squirrel couldn’t get his head inside, but he was trying to.

Curtiss and I sat there in bewil­ derment. Ken headed straight for the quiver. We watched him from the corner of our eyes as he snatched it up and darted for the cooler. We’d seen Snuffy take a can from his quiv­ er and smear something on the bark, yet it had never occurred to us to get our hands on that quiver.

Ken came in and set the can of milk on the table. He sat down and started munching his sandwich. As he was eating he kept shaking his head, and we could see that he had a hard time to keep from laughing out loud. I know Ken; I knew the guy had found out something, and was plenty surprised.

He kept snickering to himself.

Snuffy sensed something wrong and asked Ken what was up. Ken caught Snuffy off guard and pulled a can from the inside of his shirt. He put it on the table with the label aimed at Glenn and I. When we read that label we bust(Continued on page 9)

November, 1940

YE SYLVAN ARCHER

B°/ From Joe Cosner Dear Davis: You will, of course, excuse me for not contributing more freely during the last few months. Of course, it could be that it was the only real relief you have had since you took the SA to run. Be that as it may, George has been a terrible trial to me since he went to Washington. I have’ tried to remould his character and, as you know, I have had a job on my hands.

George responds to character re­ moulding much as a brush hut would to a tin roof. It can be done, but after it is done you find out that you have done a lot of hard work and wasted a lot of tin, and that you have a brush hut with a tin roof.

So it is with George. I have him now where he is so cowed that he hardly dares do anything but yip once in a while. He tries to make out that the rest of us are losing our spine or following the string or something.

On the contrary, he hardly dares talk.

I can’t get a letter from him once a month. He is deathly afraid he might say something that would bring me down on him again. Of course, I like the feeling of power that it gives me, but with all that, I am sorry now that I did it. I am con­ sidering the thing now, and may let him out again. He was better the way he was.

Maybe the strip I am sending (Look for this in next issue—Ed.) will cause Erie Gardner to cock his leg and wind up and throw an oration at someone. Here’s hoping. He feels like Hitler would on confronting infantrv armed with pea-shooters, but still he ought to let us shoot just one teeny weeny little pea at him be­ fore he lets the boom down. We would like to see the eruption.

John Yount violated a confidence of mine. He had allowed me to think that we had a beautiful friendship built up and based on a solid foun­ dation of deer spore. He let me down by exposing the whole thing in the SA with the idea that he might have been kidding. At least, he was

9

somewhat patronizing. I am beginnin to doubt that he is the expert that he said he was at first. I wish now that I had never sent him my diary of my recent hunt.

The Sylvan Archer is the one pub­ lication that I will always feel at home with. It is the first archery periodical that I ever saw, way back yonder, and to my mind is the homiest and nicest of them all. It features writers who can’t write, and car­ toonists who can’t draw, and pho­ tographers who would make a good one groan, and out of all that you never fail to get out a copy that has something we can’t put our finger on but are pleased to call homey. We like it as archers because, after all, it is “us guys.” It is all of us. Not just a few good writers.

Please accept my kindest and best wishes. Thank you for being so tol­ erant with myself, as well as other oddities with which you deal from time to time. I mention no names.

Sincerely, Joe Cosner.

SECRET OF GUT SHOT GAP (Continued from page 8) ed out laughing. Who wouldn’t?

The simplest little thing in the world, and something that’s found in every household.

Snuffy was irked to think we had a joke and didn’t let him in on it, but he soon got in on it, all right.

When his wandering eyes got sight of that can, you should of seen the blue flame spurting through the cracks in the cabin.

“Why, you dirty double crossin’ sons of he jackasses,” he snarled.

“Who in h— got into my quiver?

Might of known with you three mugs around that you’d get wise.”

Since that time I’ve used the stuff several times. I found that the little desert squirrels will come right into the house for it. Rabbits like it, and other animals. Archers shouldn’t be without it when they’re in the woods.

Any one who hasn’t tried it before will think of Snuffy Walters if they ever use it.

Perhaps we wouldn’t know a thing about it if Snuffy hadn’t of gone in the timber to cut wood, and took his lunch in a paper sack. Folks, that label read, “PEANUT BUTTER ”

10

YE SYLVAN ARCHER

November, 1940

Doghouse Doings

By George Brommers

Tod?” I understand, there is a spirit of premature rejoicing in the State of Oregon. Our Webfoot friends seem to take it for granted that, just because your doghouse editor final­ ly settled in Washington, the day of reckoning is over.

Have no such illusions, brother coon hunters.

Do not think, Dr. Cathey, Major Williams, Dr. Hew­ ett, Professor Thompson, J. E. Davis, and Frank Taylor, that you are going to be allowed to run wild from now on. I will see that proper measures are taken.

And let me warn you, you Calif­ ornians, that I still have your num­ ber. Thanks to a visit of Colonel Pierce, and letters from George Miles and Ray Hodgson, I have enough dirt on you to make any outbreak a matter for prayerful consideration.

It is just because Washington has been allowed to run wild for fifteen years that the time has come for a showdown. Take Kore Duryee— It hurts me to give the sordid de­ tails. It would have been a mighty lonesome winter for us up in the mountains if we hadn’t been cheered bv the visits of Louise and Pat Dur­ yee. Kore, being excess baggage, had to be assimilated in the process, but what the heck? How did a charming lady like Louise pick such a lemon? !

A few weeks ago I had business in Seattle. I knew that Kore needed a little uplift, so I called.

Not that day he didn’t, brothers, not that day. He was talking over the telephone to Dr. Hoffman.

“A friend of mine,” he said, “is looking for some, wild life photos for a magazine article. I have given him one of a deer I just shot in Brit­ ish Columbia, but he wants more.”

“What’s that, you didn’t know.

Say, now that was some deer now.

All of 300 pounds. I shot it at 400 yards. How many prongs? Oh, just two; they grow big up in that coun­ try, you know.”

And so on, and so on. Dick and Billie Carter, Stamps, Partee, Ser­ geant Shaughnessy of Seattle’s Fin­ est, Leonard and Kay Carter, and

about two dozen other victims before _x------- j for tbreath.

------ xi.. you will get he stopped admire the the general idea, and a.. sound technique.

Miss Howard, that’s Kore’s secre­ ,, looked unhappy. ’ .

She could tary, see where she would have to begin to train her boss all over again. I got Mrs. Duryee on the phone.

“Please,” wailed Louise, “take that spouse of mine out for lunch, won’t you. .1 just can’t stand any more of him today.

Jinn Luiiuy.

He and his deer. . .

I promised.

Just then Jane Duncan came into the office, y — :--j iher — kore had ------promised some venison, so that he would have a chance to impress her.

Jane looked properly impressed, the more so as the package was by this time strong enough to impress anybody. If Jane ever cooks it, she will have to use a nose clip, and the cats will stage a convention under her window. But never mind that.

We went out to lunch. Kore col­ lared, in due order, the waitress, the proprietor, an insurance adjuster, two cops, a barber and a bootblack, gently breaking the news to them and modestly accepting their congratula­ tions.

I suggested that he call the Asso­ ciated Press and the news photo­ graphers, but Kore is, as I told you, a modest man. I suspect that he will accidently run into Royal Brougham of the P. I., and I more than suspect that Mr. Brougham will do his duty.

Which is as it should be. Kore’s deer has a real news value, second only to that of John Davis last year. What more can I say?

As this is written I do not know whether Mr. Roosevelt or Mr. Willkie will guide the destinies of the nation for the next four years. I do, however, know who is going to be the boss of the doghouse, and it will be a very smelly place to live in unless some of you fellows reform.

A word to the wise There are two new impoundments to announce this month.

E. Hill Turnock shot a score of 404 in the fifth sectional NFA A meet, and Larry Hughes shot 348 at Santa

November, 1940

11

YE SYLVAN ARCHER

Barbara. For what these gentlemen have done to advance interest in archery they are going to have hon­ orary quarters in the penthouse, and cushions to sleep on if I have to take them off m.y own bunk.

will be held at the Redlands roving range, December 22, with a turkey shoot included.

The first national inter-scholastic archery tournament was held from October 21 to November 1, 1940, spon­ sored by the National Archery Asso­ ciation. The NAA also sponsors an inter-collegiate telegraphic match in April and May. Mrs. Myrtle Miller is chairman of the tournamet com­ mittee.

There’s a camp fire a-waiting, And a stew pot a-boiling; A glad cry of welcoming After a hard day of toiling.

FIELD ARCHERS OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA

By Elmer Bedwell, Secretary The first field meet of the fall was held on the roving range in the Ar­ royo Seco at Pasadena. The settling of the dust by the recent rains and the autumn colors on the trees and shrubs made the day for the tournamen perfect.

The following emerged as victors: Men’s championship class — Roland.

Quavle, gold bar; Larry Hughes, sil­ ver bar. Mien’s general division— Dr. Erwin Pletcher, championship medal; D. K. Olson, red ribbon; Phil­ ip Conrad, white ribbon.

Ladies’ championship division—Na­ omi Baker, gold bar; Ruth Hathaway, silver bar. Ladies’ general division— Eva Bedwell, blue ribbon; Gene Ba­ con, red ribbon; Babe Bitzenburger, white ribbon.

In the junior division Bob King won the Bedwell Trophy for that di­ vision, but owing to the fact that he was the only junior competing, he re­ fused to take the trophy, preferring to wait until the next tournament ana have competition with the winning.

Our President, Edmund M. Brock, has just spent four days this last month in the north representing our organization, and doing some hard work toward helping our cause in getting a reserve for the archers.

Southern California archers are all. looking forward to the next major event in California archery this fall, the State Field Archery Tournament, to be held at Redlands. We hope to greet many Central and Northern California archers as well as some from out of state.

The next S.C.F.A.A. tournament

From the Utah Hills “Deer Hunt, ’39”

The sun has just set, And the coyotes are calling; The breeze has come up, And dry leaves start falling.

And Archers come From the hills.

striding down

Welcome to the camp fire, Unstrap your arrows, Unstring your good bow, And warm to the marrow.

Fill up with stew And tell us your story Of the deer you had seen (And those you had missed;) It will all be unfolded as Archers glory.

And Hunters came from the Hills.

striding down

Oh! There is nothing so fine As a camp fire’s bright glow, With the coffee pot boiling, And lighted up faces of Archers you know.

There’s a heaven full of stars, An owl in the hollow, Sleepy Archers pile in, All dream of the morrow.

And Archers their kills.

striding

down

with

—F. H. Zimbeaux.

12

November, 1940

YE SYLVAN ARCHER

Parachutists May Sit on Arrows It is learnt from the newspapers that Mr. J. H. Davey, Platoon Leader, Home Guard, bears his trusty bow and arrows (points sharpened) as well as his revolver when out on duty.

The parachutists may not like it!

Moreover Messrs. Jaques of Hatton Garden tells us that some people in the country are ordering high-class bows of yew, and arrows with hard­ ened barbed steel points for possible use against parachutists.

Soldiers in lonely places have taken up archery in their spare time.

—Archery News (England).

SUBSCRIBERS PLEASE NOTICE A cross appearing in this space means that your sub­ scription has expired and we would appreciate your prompt renewal so that your name may be kept on our mailing list.

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Genuine African Bow, $3.75. Ancient flint arrowheads, perfect, 6c each— Indian Museum, Osborne, Kansas.

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"ARCHERY TACKLE, HOW TO MAKE AND HOW TO USE IT.”

by Adolph Shane. Bound in cloth and illustrated with more than fifty draw­ ings and photographs. Information for making archery tackle and in­ structions for shooting. Price is $1.75.

Send orders to Ye Sylvan Archer, 505 North 11th street, Oorvallis,

"ARCHERY,” by Robert P. Elmer M. D., revised edition, most com­ plete book on archery published. 566 pages of valuable information for colleges, libraries, schools, camps archery clubs and individuals. Price $5.00 postpaid, orders to Ye Sylvan Archer, 505 North 11th street, Corval­ lis, Oregon.

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A professional maker “comes clean” on the best isuai methods of his craft in this unusu: book for serious archer, novice and general reader.

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Please mention Ye Sylvan Archer when writing advertisers.

31

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9 IlLnU Free Catalogue.

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DO YOU LIKE THE CHARM OF THE BACKHILLS ?

W. G. PRESCOTT

If so —read ARCADIAN LIFE MAGAZINE. It tells the story of the Ozarks in a way that will captivate you. $1.00 a year; 25c a copy.

Classified advertising (for archers) 2c a word.

O. E. RAYBURN, Editor Caddo Gap, Arkansas

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Write us for your needs in Archery books. Ye Sylvan Archer.

A monthly illustrated mag­ azine devoted to items of interest to the collector of antiques.

$1.50 per year.

The Flat Bow—70 pages of Archery information for 50 cents, well illus­ trated. Ye Sylvan Archer, 505 N. 11th St., Corvallis, Oregon.

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BACK NUMBERS YE SYLVAN ARCHER Volumes I to V Inclusive $1.00 Per Volume B. G. THOMPSON R. F. D. 1, Corvallis, Oregon

“THE MARK OF DISTINCTION IN ARCHERY TACKLE Fine Yew Target and Hunting Bows, Plain or Backed with Rawhide.

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