"A noble profession," he remarked. "Next to medicine I regard it as the
noblest profession known to our limited capabilities. Do you ever
think," he asked me, "that the medical profession is devoted to
relieving physical ills? To warding off death? The law, on the other
hand, takes care of your property rights. It is supposed to be the
guardian of the weak. How often, however, do we see its mission
perverted, and how often it becomes an oppressor of the unfortunate. How
many times do we see it aiding in the accumulation of those large
fortunes with which our modern civilization is fast becoming burdened
and brutalized."
While I had never contracted the filthy habit of smoking, I had in my
pocket several good cigars. I extended the case to my newfound friend.
He took one, thanked me, bit off the end, lit it and puffed away with
evident enjoyment. I took the liberty of asking him his business. "I am
a professor of belles lettres and philosophy in the Indian College on
the Klamath reservation. I am here on my vacation. I was born and reared
to early manhood in these mountains. They still have a charm for me.
While I love my books and my labors, there is a freedom in my life here
which appeals to me. Here I go back to natural life, and study again the
book of nature. Each day I take a lesson from the wild animals of the
forest, from the surging streams and twittering birds. Here I can better
realize how small is man in the general plan of creation."
He hesitated, and I took advantage of his silence and asked him about
the religion of his race. Whether the modern red man adhered to the
teachings of his tribe, or leaned toward the white man's God. Replying,
he delivered to me a discourse of considerable length, which, as near as
I can recollect it now, ran as follows:
A Red Agnostic.
"My people have been too busy these many years filling their stomachs to
pay much attention to saving their souls. We teach a religion that
inculcates good behavior, and promises as a reward for a well-spent life
an eternity of bliss in the happy hunting ground. Our future is depicted
by our priests as a materialistic future, where we follow the chase,
defeat our enemies and enjoy to our full those things which render us
happy in this world. Personally, I have long since discarded the
teachings of my people, and I am in a state of doubt which seriously
perplexes me. I have read much and widely on this subject. I find that
you white men have not one religion, but many. You are divided into
sects, torn by factions. From the teachings of history I would think
that the multitude of denominations you support was your greatest
safeguard. You know from times past, when a religion becomes too
powerful it becomes also intolerant, and persecutions follow. I am loath
to accept the Christian theory of the origin of man or his probable
destiny. Science teaches us that the human being has existed for
millions of years longer than the churches admit we have existed. The
idolatry practiced by the Catholic church repulses me, and yet its
stability has strongly appealed to me. You will remember what Macaulay,
in reviewing Ranke's History of the Popes, said of this church. After
reviewing its history, its defeats and its triumphs, he added: 'And she
may still exist in undiminished vigor when some traveler from New
Zealand shall in the midst of a vast solitude take his stand on a broken
arch of London Bridge to sketch the ruins of St. Paul.' And yet, neither
the age of the church nor its stability is conclusive to my mind of its
divine origin. I am rather convinced from these facts that it has been
governed by a skillful set of men, who were able politicians and
financiers, as well as religious enthusiasts. Certainly no protestant
church can lay claim to divine origin. We know too well that the
Episcopal church was founded by an English King, because the Pope of
Rome refused him a divorce. Luther quarreled with his church and broke
away from its restraints. Wesley founded the Methodist church, Calvin
the Presbyterian church. The more I study the religious history of the
world, the more I am convinced that religion is founded on fear. The
immortal bard, from whom nothing seems to have been hidden, lays down
the foundation of all religion in those words from 'Hamlet,' where he
makes the melancholy Dane exclaim:
"To die:--to sleep,--To sleep! perchance to dream:--ay, there's the
rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have,
shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause."
"Do you realize that Ingersoll, by his teachings and his denunciations
of what he termed the 'absurdities of orthodox religious beliefs,' has
done more toward shaking faith in many church doctrines than any man of
this age'? And, after all, is not his doctrine a sane one? He says, in
effect: 'I can not believe these things. My reason revolts at them. They
are repugnant to my intellect. I can not believe that a just God will
punish one of His creatures for an honest opinion.' He denies that there
is such a God as the churches hold out to us. He denies that the world
was created in six days; that man was created in the manner described in
the Bible, and that woman was created from man's rib. He denies that
miracles were ever performed, or that there was any evidence, reliable
or authoritative, that they were ever performed. And yet he does not
deny the existence of a future life. His doctrine on this point is, 'I
know only the history of the past and the happenings of the present. I
do not know, nor does any man know, anything of the future. Let us hope
there is a life beyond the grave.'
"The old poet, Omar, argues against a future life. You will recall these
lines:
"'Strange, is it not, that of the multitudes who
Before us pass'd the door of Darkness through,
Not one returns to tell us of the Road,
Which to discover we must travel, too.'"
"The churches tell us we must have faith to be saved, but the great
minds of the present age are not satisfied, any more than many of the
great minds of the past were satisfied, to admit as a matter of faith
the whole foundation of the Christian religion."
"People want to be shown. They are not willing to rely upon poorly
authenticated stories of what occurred several thousand years ago. The
question presents itself to us: Is the world better, for its present
beliefs than it formerly was, when religion was a matter of statute
People may not be as religious as they once were, but they are certainly
more humane. Women are no longer slaves, chattels, with unfeeling
husbands. Slavery itself no longer exists in any civilized nation.
Polygamy is not practiced to the extent that it was in Biblical days.
The world progressed as fear ceased to rule the human mind."
"But, pardon me," he added with infinite grace and a charming wave of.
his hand, "you see your question has aroused in me the failing of the
pedagogue. I have said more than I had intended."
"How do your people," I asked, "look upon the material progress of the
age?" "They are astounded," he answered. "Since the Modoc War many of my
people have prospered. You have seen their farms, their houses, and
noted their occupations. They are rich in lands and stock, and even in
money. They have many comforts and even many luxuries in their homes.
Some of them have traveled extensively, and they come back filled with
awe and admiration with what the white man has done and is doing. I read
the modern press, and many scientific works, and I am satisfied that
man will fly in a few years more. Already the automobile is displacing
the domestic animals. The telephone was a great triumph of science, next
in importance to steam locomotion. But, are your people as happy with
your modern methods, your crowded cities, your strenuous existence, as
your forefathers were, who led the simple life? And where is this mad
scramble, not for wealth alone, not for power but for mere existence,
nothing more, that the human race is engaged in, going to end? Can you
tell me? Take America, one of the newest civilized lands of the earth,
how long will it be before her coal measures are exhausted? Her iron
ores exhausted? Her forests will soon be a thing of the past. Already
you hear complaints that her fertile lands are not yielding as they once
did, and your population is constantly increasing. With coal gone, with
iron gone, with the land poverty stricken to a point where profitable
production of cereals can no longer be had, what is to become of your
teeming millions?"
The Awakening.
I assured him I could not answer these questions. That I had asked
myself the same things a thousand times, and no answer came to me. I
handed the professor another cigar. He lit it. Just then an old Indian
woman clad in a calico wrapper, but bareheaded and barefooted, came down
the road towards us. She stopped some fifty feet away, and in a shy, low
voice, but in good English, she called him. "Papa, did you catch me a
fish for dinner?" The professor turned his head, and seeing her, said to
me, "Ah, here is my guardian angel, my wife," and then to her, holding
up his trout, he said, "Yes, I have it. I am coming now."
He arose, held out a dirty hand for me to shake, and in parting, said,
"My dear sir, you can not imagine how much I have enjoyed our chance
meeting, resulting from your poor pronunciation of two Indian words.
When you return to your civilized surroundings, ask yourself, 'Are any
of this mad throng as happy as the Indian I met at the Killican'."
He joined his wife, and the aged pair passed into a brush hut beneath
some stately pines. I, too, turned toward the wagon which was to carry
me back to camp, meditating long and deeply on the remarks of this
strolling compound of savagery and education. Environment is largely
responsible for man's condition. Here was a man who had acquired
considerable knowledge of the world and books, he was still a savage in
his manner of life and in his habits.
His manner of talking was forceful and natural, and his command of
language remarkable. The ease and abandon with which he wielded the
arguments of those who rail against the existence of a Divine Being
would lead one, listening to him, to imagine himself in the lecture-room
of some modern university.
A Great Day's Sport on Warner's Ranch.
Think of three days in the open! Three glorious days in the sunshine!
"Far from the madding crowd!" Far from the rush and stir and whirl and
hum of business! Far from the McNamara horror, and its sickening
aftermath of jury bribing!
A short time ago, whirling over good roads and bad roads, through orange
groves with their loads of fruit, rapidly assuming golden hues; through
miles and miles of vineyards, now 'reft of all leaves, vineyards in
which the pruners were already busily at work; past acres and acres of
ground being prepared for grain; through wooded canyons and
pine-screened vales; ascending from almost sea level to upwards of 3000
feet--a party of us went to Warner's Ranch after the famous canvasback
ducks.
We left my home at 7:30 o'clock a. m., some of us in my machine, and two
of the party in a runabout. Filled with the ambition of youth, the
driver of the latter car reached Mr. William Newport's place in the
Perris Valley, a run of seventy-six miles, in two hours and twenty
minutes. We jogged along, reaching Newport's in three hours, and found
the exultant, speed-crazed fiend waiting for us. He was loud in the
praise of his speedy run. Of all of this take note a little later in the
story.
We lunched with Mr. Newport, and then took him with us. What a day it
was! A radiant, dry, winter day! The whole earth was flooded with
sunshine. Not a cloud was in the sky. The air was full of snap and
electric energy. The atmosphere absolutely clear. We wound in and out of
the canyons, over dry and running streams, always ascending, climbing
the eastern shoulder of Mt. Palomar, not to the top, but to a pass by
which the ranch is reached.
Before 4 o'clock we were on Warner's Ranch. This property could well be
described as the "Pamir" of Southern California. True, its elevation is
but slight compared with the 16,000 feet of that great Asiatic country,
bearing the name of "Pamir," where roams in all his freedom the true
"Ovis Poli" or "Big Horn."
The ranch comprises about 57,000 acres of land, and is the largest body
of comparatively level land at even an elevation of 3500 feet in
Southern California. It is an immense circular valley, rock ribbed and
mountain bound. Out of it, through a narrow gorge to the southwest,
flows the San Luis Rey River. The ranch is well watered. Much of it
during the winter season is semi-bog or swamp land, and at all times
affords wonderful grazing for stock. There are circling hills and level
mesas and broad valleys here and there. Nestled between the hills are a
number of mountain lakes, fed by innumerable springs around their edges.
These lakes furnish food for the canvasback duck in the various grasses
and other growths, of which they are extremely fond.
First Bag.
Contrary to good judgment, we drove to one of these lakes, and had half
an hour's shooting that evening. We got about twenty birds. We proceeded
to the hotel, and after drawing our birds, hung them up where they would
freeze that night and not be in the sun while we were shooting next day.
A cold north wind was blowing, which whistled mournfully through the
cottonwoods, and suggested a night where plenty of blankets would be
more than acceptable.
The hotel is situated at the Warner's Hot Springs, celebrated throughout
all of Southern California for their wonderful curative properties. The
proprietor, Mr. Stanford, and his good wife, made us comfortable, and
were as accommodating as we have always found them. After a good supper
we proceeded to our rooms and got ready for the next day's slaughter.
Well into the night the wind whistled and blew. It finally went down.
Then the temperature began to fall. The thermometer went to 29 degrees
before morning. Wherever there was a thin surface of water, there was
ice.
We did not get out very early. It is not necessary at Warner's. The
ducks fly from lake to lake when disturbed. If too heavily bombarded
they leave the valley. We breakfasted about 7 o'clock. Taking our guns
and ammunition, we started out over the frosty roads for the lakes. As
we reached the lower ground the frost was heavier. I found the surface
of one small lake solidly frozen. At the larger lakes there was just a
little ice on the edges. We distributed our men to the various lakes,
and the shooting began.
Say, neighbor, did you ever hunt those big mountain canvasback? If you
have, you know the story. If you have not, I am afraid I can not give
you a correct impression of it. Sitting in a frozen blind, all at once
you hear the whirring of wings, far off in the sky. Before you can
locate the source of it, "Swish!" an old Can goes by. You look at the
streak of light he leaves in the atmosphere. Then you hear another
far-off alarm. You seize your gun as the gray mark passes overhead at
about 125 miles an hour. You shoot at it and realize that you have shot
just fifty feet behind it. Another one comes by. Bang! again goes the
gun. You have done a little better this time, but you are yet not less
than thirty feet in the rear. Again you try it. Just a few feathers fly.
You are alarmed now, and there comes to you the admonition of an old
duck hunter, who laid down the following three rules for duck shooting,
viz:
"First, lead them considerably.
"Second, lead them a little more than last time.
"Third, still lead them further yet."
The next time you get your bird, a great big, magnificent Can. Kerplunk!
he falls into the water, or with a dull thud, he strikes the ground with
force enough to kill a horse if hit squarely by it. What a bird he was!
How beautifully marked! How bright his wing! How deep his breast,
compared with any other duck in the land! How magnificent the dark
brown, velvet coloring of his head! How soft and satiny the white
streaked back!
All over the valley the guns were booming. Out of the sky, a mile away,
you would see ducks flying rapidly, suddenly crumple up and plunge to
the earth or water.
Ducks Go Skating.
In a lull in the shooting I left my blind and went a quarter of a mile
away to the little lake mentioned before as frozen over. I crept up to
the top of a hill and looked down upon it. Although the sun was high in
the sky, the lake was still frozen. It was surrounded by ducks. I don't
want to say that they were skating on the ice. I saw one old canvasback
drake, however, peck at another duck. The latter squawked and waddled
out of the way, going where the water should have been. When he struck
the ice, he slid for quite a little distance, balancing with his wings
in a most ludicrous fashion. While cautiously watching them, I saw this
performance repeated several times.
There was no hope of my approaching them within shooting distance, so I
stood up to arouse the ducks, hoping to send them to my companions. They
filled the air with a great clatter of wings, and circled off to various
portions of the valley. I heard a great bombardment as they crossed the
other lakes, and I knew that someone had taken toll from them.
It was a beautiful day, with cloudless sky. The sun's warm summer like
rays were in marked contrast to the icy breath of winter, encountered at
sunrise. What a grand sunrise it was! From behind the mountains of the
East, up out of the depths of the Salton Sea, Old Sol first illuminated
the sky, the mountain tops and wooded ridges to the southwest and north,
and then with a rich show of crimson coloring, he suddenly vaulted into
the sky, touching with his golden wand each frosted leaf and frozen bush
and tree, and hill and vale and mountain top.
Fine Luck.
We shot with varying success during the morning hours.
Many of the ducks, especially the larger ones, circled high in the air
like miniature aeroplanes, almost beyond human vision. How they sped on
frightened wings, gradually going higher and higher, and finally darting
off over the eastern rim of the valley in the direction of Salton Sea.
Just before noon time my companion at one of the lakes, and myself,
gathered up our ducks and hung them high in a tree at the water's edge.
We then went to another lake by which the autos stood, where we had
agreed to muster for lunch. The entire party were in high spirits, and
pronounced the sport the best they had ever had.
After lunch two of the party in the runabout drove out of the valley to
some place familiar to them. They returned later with the limit of
jacksnipe--big, fat, thick-breasted, meaty looking birds.
My companion and myself returned to our blinds. The duck flight during
the fore part of the afternoon was exceedingly light. I managed to land,
among others, a beautiful canvasback drake. Shortly afterwards I stopped
as fine a Mallard drake as I ever saw. This was the only Mallard killed
on the trip.
In the gathering shadows of the coming night we drove back to the
Springs. Seven guns had killed 118 ducks, fifty of them canvasback.
There was a fine sprinkling of sprig, redhead, widgeon, plenty of teal,
bluebills and some spoonbills, all fine, fat birds. Then there were the
jacksnipe.
Tired and happy we dined. Until retiring time, we lived again the sport
of the day. When we sought our beds, sleep came quickly, and I do not
think any of us turned over until it was time to get up. We had packed
our belongings, taken on gasoline and breakfasted, and started homeward
a little after 7 o'clock.
We visited another section of the country known to one of our party, and
fell in with some mountain pigeons, and in a couple of hours managed to
kill sixty-eight of them. Talk about shooting! Oh, Mama! How those
pigeons could fly! And pack away lead! No bird I ever saw could equal
them in that particular.
Even at close range, a well-centered bird would, when hard hit, pull
himself together as his feathers flew in the breeze, and sail away out
into some mountain side, quite out of reach of the hunter, undoubtedly
to die and furnish food for the buzzards or coyotes. We had to take
awful chances as to distance in order to kill any of them.
While looking for a dead pigeon that fell off towards the bottom of a
wooded bluff in some thick bunches of chapparal, I heard the quick boof!
boof! of the hoofs of a bounding deer. I did not see that animal. An
instant later, in rounding a heavy growth of bushes, I saw a magnificent
buck grazing on the tender growth. He stood just the fraction of a
second with the young twig of the bush in his mouth, looking at me with
his great luminous eyes, and then he made a jump or two out of sight.
Strange that these two animals had not fled at the sound of our guns.
A game warden hailed us and insisted on seeing all our hunting licenses
and on counting our ducks. This privilege, under the law, we could have
denied him, but we were a little proud of the birds we had, and as we
were well within the number we could have killed, we made no objection
to his doing so.
As a result of its speedy run the day before, the runabout had for some
little time been running on a rim. We left its occupants, who disdained
our help, putting on a new tire. After a beautiful run we again reached
the Newport place, where we lunched. The car did not appear. We hated to
go away and leave them, as we thought they might be in difficulty. We
telephoned to Temecula and found they had passed that point. About two
hours after our arrival they came whirling in. They had had more tire
trouble. They took a hasty lunch, and we all started together.
We made the home run without incident. Spread out in one body our game
made a most imposing appearance. Besides the 118 ducks there were 50
jacksnipe and 68 fine large wild pigeons.
Such days make us regret that we are growing old. They rejuvenate us
--make us boys again.