_Sportsmanship._
My book would not be complete without giving you a handful of the
material that built the foundation for my enjoyable life.
Now, as I see it, there is a great difference between a sport and a
sportsman. As to the sport, I think the less said the better. But the
word Sportsman spells a great many great words; first of all it spells
_others_ and _self-sacrifice_, for to be a real sportsman one cannot
stand alone.
When I was a lad eight years of age and slept with my two brothers, I
was awakened one morning by the touch of father’s powerful hand, and he
whispered, “Jack, do you want to go with me for a pigeon hunt?” and my
bare feet were soon on the floor. About sunrise found father and me
crouched in an old fencerow that bordered a wheat stubble, and the
pigeons alighting, or trying to alight, on two dead-topped hickory trees
that were in range of us. As they would hover, father would give them
both barrels; and really, he made it rain pigeons for a while. Soon my
little game-sack and father’s hunting-coat pockets were filled to the
limit and we were on our way back home, all smiles, and anxious to get
there to tell how it all happened.
Father promised me when these pigeons were all eaten up he and I would
go again. About the fourth day (or morning, I should say), we were off
again; but to my disappointment father had invited another Englishman to
go along, Mr. Thomas Perkins. Father called him Tommy. I was more
disgusted than ever when we arrived at the shooting grounds, for what
did father do but put Tommy in the same hiding and shooting place that
we had occupied a few mornings previous, right between the two hickory
trees, while he and I went across the field and watched by a big dead
elm, where we had only seen a few flocks alight the previous morning.
You see the pigeons would alight on these trees before flying down into
the stubble.
The fun soon started. I say “fun” but to me it was a clear case of
disgust, for every flock that came went to the two hickory trees, and
father would almost lose control of himself, laughing, and chuckling
over the way Tommy was rolling them down. “There” he said, “I am sure he
killed eight that lick!”
Finally a flock or two came our way, and out of the four shots father
fired we got only twelve, and really the dear man did not seem to be
watching our side of the field, but got all his enjoyment out of his
friend’s success.
Finally Tommy waved his hand to us to go over, and as these two met,
each tried to talk the faster. But as for me, I was disgusted right from
my bare feet to my red hair; I did not have my little game-sack half
full! However, I helped pick up pigeons and soon we were off for home.
But every fence we came to, the morning’s shoot was rehearsed by these
two old English sportsmen. When we came to the spot where each went his
way, Tommy reached out his hand and gripped father’s in a firm,
heart-warming way, as he said, “John, I want to thank you from the
bottom of my ’eart. That’s been the nicest bit of pigeon shooting, John,
I hever ’ad.” Then as he turned to go he stopped very suddenly. “Oh,
’ere,” he said; “I don’t want more than a half dozen of these birds, and
you have a big family; ’ere, Jack, put um in your bag.” And really the
dear man loaded me down with pigeons.
That morning’s sport did not stop there, but for the next forty-five
years I had the enjoyment of hearing father occasionally rehearse the
pleasure of seeing Tommy roll the pigeons down. And thus I was raised to
know that when one invites another on a hunt, he is your guest, and the
more pleasure your guest has, the greater your accomplishment.
Now I am a man that stands five feet, ten inches, and weighs about one
hundred and eighty-five pounds; but this I am certain of: Any sportsman
would have to be a bigger man to hold a bigger and a better time than I
have had.
On the other hand, this earth does not produce bigger and better men
than it has been my privilege to hunt and sleep with in the wilds of
America, and I do not think there is a better place in this world to
find out who you are associating with than when on a hunting expedition.
After my brother and I were accidentally separated I thought very little
of going to the wilds again; but a bunch of my friends came to me and
insisted that I go with them. As a result, a small party was organized
and I went along, as what I considered a guest, for I was allowed to do
anything I saw fit; they even carried the water, did all the cooking and
sawed the wood, allowing me to do the splitting of it, as I understood
the axe maybe a little the best. To say the least, we had one of those
enjoyable outings, a good desire to go, plenty of food and plenty of
game, and a good desire to come home.
After we were home and settled down with our loved ones again, one
evening a rap came to my door, and on turning the knob, who should be
there but my dear old hunting party, not loaded down with moose-meat,
but with oysters, and they surprised me by their presence. But my
surprise was still greater when one of them rose up from the table,
called me their leader, and read the following address:
“Our dear Gorilla Chief”
This, in all probability, will be the last meeting of the Quebec
hunting party for 1901. If we should be permitted, in another year,
to go again to the wilds of Quebec, there will possibly be some
changes in our company—new members added, and some of our present
members unable to be with us.
We wish to express to you, our leader, the thanks which are your
due, for the kindness shown us all on our hunting excursion and ask
you to accept this present as a token of our appreciation. We know
that we could not have had a leader more thoughtful of our comfort
and pleasure.
It is with grateful hearts that we remember that each was the equal
of the others in your estimation, that no rough language was allowed
in camp, and that when Sunday came round, no guns were shot off and
the hymns of “home, sweet home” were sung and enjoyed by all.
That you may be permitted to lead hunting parties into Quebec for
many years to come is the sincere wish of
LEONARD MALOTT,
JAMES DOAN,
WESLEY ULCH,
ELIHU SCRATCH, Sec.
Actually, up till that minute I had had no thought of them looking upon
me as their leader. The words contained in the address filled my living
room, and I could hardly reply. But my thoughts drifted back to that
September morning of 1873; and if this address were in its proper place,
it would be engraved on the tombstones of those two dear old men who set
me such a self-sacrificing example of good sportsmanship on that little
pigeon hunt, so long ago.
[Illustration:
I LOVE THE BIRDS AND THEY HAVE COME TO ME]
[Illustration:
I PLANT ROSES, AND THEY ARCH MY PATH WITH THEIR FRAGRANT BLOOM]
[Illustration:
BUT BEST OF ALL I LOVE BOYS, AND BOYS LOVE ME IN RETURN
This photograph is of my Sunday school class twenty years ago.]