at all.

Now a National Forest is a happy hunting-ground. Whereas in the National
Parks game is faithfully preserved, hunting is permitted in the forests.
To this end, we took with us a complete arsenal. The naturalist carried
a Colt's revolver; the Big Boy had a twelve-gauge hammerless, called a
"howitzer." We had two twenty-four-gauge shotguns in case we met an
elephant or anything similarly large and heavy, and the Little Boy
proudly carried, strapped to his saddle, a twenty-two high-power rifle,
shooting a steel-jacketed, soft-nose bullet, an express-rifle of high
velocity and great alarm to mothers. In addition to this, we had a
Savage repeater and two Winchester thirties, and the Forest Supervisor
carried his own Winchester thirty-eight. We were entirely prepared to
meet the whole German army.

It is rather sad to relate that, with all this preparation, we killed
nothing whatever. Although it is not true that, on the day we
encountered a large bear, and the three junior members of the family
were allowed to turn the artillery loose on him, at the end of the
firing the bear pulled out a flag and waved it, thinking it was the
Fourth of July.

As we started, that August midday, for the long, dusty ride up the
Railroad Creek Trail, I am sure that the three junior Rineharts had
nothing less in mind than two or three bearskins apiece for school
bedrooms. They deserved better luck than they had. Night after night,
sitting in the comparative safety of the camp-fire, I have seen my three
sons, the Big, the Middle, and the Little Boy, starting off, armed to
the teeth with deadly weapons, to sleep out under the stars and catch
the first unwary bear on his way to breakfast in the morning.

Morning after morning, I have sat breakfastless and shaken until the
weary procession of young America toiled into camp, hungry and bearless,
but, thank Heaven, whole of skin save where mosquitoes and black flies
had taken their toll of them. They would trudge five miles, sleep three
hours, hunt, walk five miles back, and then ride all day.

* * * * *

The first day was the least pleasant. We were still in the Railroad
Creek Valley; the trail was dusty; packs slipped on the sweating horses
and had to be replaced. The bucking horse of the outfit had, as usual,
been given the eggs, and, burying his head between his fore legs, threw
off about a million dollars' worth before he had been on the trail an
hour