MARCH Roundup

WINTER WILL BE retreating north as the warm winds of March sweep across NEBRASKAland. And with the winds comes a flurry of activity during the month. People with interests ranging from skating to public speaking to science will find an event to their liking.

Setting the pace for the month will be the state high school basketball contests, March 10-12. Rivals in Classes B, C, and D will battle for wins, acclaim, and a trophy at three locations in Lincoln. Sites for the tilts will be Pershing Municipal Auditorium, Lincoln High School, and the University of Nebraska Coliseum. For the second year in a row, Omaha will host the Class A tournament.

Cornhusker fans will have a chance to see more basketball when the University of Nebraska cagers meet Kansas State University on March 1, and Oklahoma State University on the 7th. Fast action is in store for fans who like their sports in the ring. All-stars wrestle at Omaha's Civic Auditorium, March 5 and 18, and at Lincoln's Pershing Auditorium, March 8, 22, and 30.

Though March days may be stormy and cloudy, fishermen begin to break out the tackle boxes as the winter snows melt.

The ponies signal spring, too, as horse racing opens at Fonner Park in Grand Island on March 29 and continues until May 4. The track will be closed Mondays and Good Friday, except for the last Monday of the meet.

As summer nears, interest is heightened in vacations and travel, and the sure cure for an early case of spring fever is a visit to a home and vacation show. Do-it-yourselfers will find some good tips for renovating or redecorating at the Alliance Farm-Home Show, the Grand Island Home Show, and the Omaha Home Show, and at the Lincoln Greater Nebraska Home, Sports and Travel Show. Grand Island and Lincoln will stage their shows March 17 to 20. Alliance has not yet firmed up its date.

St. Pat's day on March 17 is for the wearin' of the green, but blue will be the color in Lincoln, March 31 through April 2. That's the date of the Future Farmers of America Conference, when more than 2,100 blue-jacketed young men will convene at Nebraska Center. A number of speech contests and the appearance of a national officer will highlight the conference.

A new speech contest, sponsored by the Nebraska Game, Forestation and Parks Commission, is being held this year. The contest, geared to stimulate interest in the management of wildlife as a crop of the Nebraska farm or ranch, will have as the topic, "Wildlife—A Crop of the Land".

Youthful orators will be at work as they polish speeches, poetry and prose readings, and arguments for debate in preparation for the Lewis and Clark Conference Speech Contest at Winside on March 7.

The accent is upon youth throughout the month. Sertoma Club sponsors a Pancake Festival at Pershing Auditorium in Lincoln on March 24. Proceeds from the Festival will go to support the Youth Employment Service. The money pays for all salaries, office space, and equipment for the service, which places high school students in part-time jobs.

A contest to challenge the spelling abilities of first through ninth graders will be held at Auburn on March 12. The Nemaha County Spelling Bee winners will then go on to the state competition.

More than 2,500 students from the surrounding area are expected to attend Kearney State College's Inter-High Days, March 25-26. Students will be tested in scholastic areas, then their towns will be awarded prizes on the basis of overall scores.

To demonstrate that agriculture is big business and to show how science works in agriculture, a Science in Agriculture Conference will be held at the Nebraska Center on March 19.

Open to high school juniors and seniors in the upper section of their class who are interested in science, the conference will feature demonstrations by the Agricultural College of the University of Nebraska. The fascination of scientific research will be explained in such displays as "Death Rays Kill Insects." A selected number of the demonstrations will be taken to North Platte and ScottsblufT the following week.

Two weekend training sessions for 4-H junior leaders will be held during the month at Kearney and Lincoln. Junior leaders, 14 years or over, may attend, and will also help plan the leadership-learning meetings.

Night life has it share of the monthly calendar. Opening the musical events will be the Goldovsky Grand Opera Theatre at Pershing Auditorium in Lincoln on March 2. Nebraska Wesleyan students will present their opera beginning that night and continuing through March 5. Varel and Bailey's Chanteurs de Paris, often called the Rogers and Hammerstein of France, will sing their way through a performance of folk and popular songs at the University of Nebraska Student Union on March 3. Isaac Stern, renowned violinist, will appear in concert with the Omaha Orchestra at Joslyn Museum on March 21 and 22. Soprano Mary Costa sings at Joslyn on March 27. Mermaids—all university coeds—take to the water for two aqua shows. Nebraska Wesleyan University presents the Aqua Plains Water Show, March 29-31, and University of Nebraska Aquaquettes present a Water Ballet, March 24 and 25.

Listed throughout the month are enough conferences and conventions to keep everyone busy. A Dairy Industry Conference at the Nebraska Center in Lincoln will attract members of the state's dairy industry, owners of dairy plants, and related industries. Noted guest lecturers include university professors and representatives from dairies and milk products companies. The Nebraska Dairy Technologists Society will hold a meeting on March 15 in connection with the conference.

Prime beef will be on display at the Nebraska - Colorado Angus Sale, and Western Nebraska Hereford Sale, both set during the month in Alliance. Indian artifacts, polished rocks, crystals, and fossils will be displayed at Bayard's ninth annual Chimney Rock Stone-Age Fair, March 18-20.

"The stormy March has come at last, with wind, and cloud, and changing skies," the poet wrote. If he had lived in NEBRAKAland he could have easily added, "and plenty to do." THE END

WHAT TO DO

SPEAK UP

BRAND FAN—"My wife and I surely enjoy NEBRASKAland magazine. Being in the service, I enjoy the beautiful pictures of Nebraska, and my wife and I love to show our friends here what our home state really looks like.

"After reading Speak Up in the December issue, we are glad to see that envious out-of-staters are subscribing, too. So if you're keeping score be sure to add us to your 'I like the outdoor NEBRASKAland' column.

"After seeing the signpost on page 27 of the same issue, I would like to know what department and its address I would write to to find the list of brands and which ranches they represent. I would like to see an aerial photo taken at 2,000 feet and angled down to 35 degrees of the widest part of the Platte River." —Cpl. R. L. Merchant, Havelock, North Carolina.

To get a "State Brand Book", write to the Secretary of State, State Brand Division, State Capitol, Lincoln, Nebraska, and ask for the State Brand Book which has all ranch locations, brands and so on. It sells for $10, and your personal check or post office money order should accompany your order. We have a story on brands in this issue.

In answer to your second question, this is a real stickler since the width of the river varies from day to day. However, it would be somewhere between the mouth of the river and the city of North Platte. We seldom do much aerial photography, and therefore have none of the Platte available."—Editor.

DUCK CLUB—"We wanted you to know how much we appreciate the article, 'Poor Man's Duck Club*, in December's NEBRASKAland. We are sure the ideas expressed in the article represent the thinking of many duck hunters in the prairie states where the waterfowl production area acquisition program has been successful.

"The 'Poor Man's Duck Club' article, we believe, hits home better than any article we have seen in regard to the small wetlands program."—R. W. Burwell, Regional Director, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, Minneapolis, Minnesota.

KIND WORDS—"Your magazine continues to amaze me in typography and content. I am posting your latest issue for my reporting class. Thanks for continuing to send me the magazine."—Ed Dugan, School of Journalism, Missoula, Montana.

RODE BASKET—"I was so pleased to see the fine story about Cloud Smith. He is a fine Christian gentleman and apparently has enjoyed a useful and interesting life.

"I, too, was at the World's Fair in 1893 and rode in a big revolving hanging basket affair. I was scared but proud when I again touched earth. I was 90 years old in November."—M. M. Loper, Lincoln, Nebraska.

CALLING ALL CATS

THE SQUEAL OF the dying rabbit was sharp in the stillness of the night. It shrilled along the creek, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once as it echoed through the grotesque rock formations of Nebraska's Badlands, north of Crawford. A prowling bobcat caught the sound and stopped, his cocked ears straining to locate the wailing cry. He was big and he was hungry. Again the agonizing shriek filled the darkness and this time the animal partially fixed the direction.

Excited by the prospect of a meal, the stub tail trotted forward, his big pads moving over the dry leaves with soundless ease. At the edge of a clearing he paused, startled as a shaft of light wavered toward him. As the beam moved nearer, the animal leaped over the bank and watched as the strange light flicked at the edge of the bank and probed on into the velvety darkness.

The old torn was cautious now but he was still hungry. The valley was silent so he resumed his restless hunting. Once again the tortured sound of a rabbit filled the night. It triggered the cat into an immediate trot through the creek bed. Using the brushy cover along the edge, he circled the clearing, trying to scent the predator who had caught the hapless bunny.

Crouching now, the cat stalked the sound which came from a small haystack located some 50 yards from the edge of the clearing. Unknowingly he was being decoyed to almost certain death but the big cat did not realize it.

His ambushers had selected their spot well. Concealed by the stack, the two men had an almost uninterrupted view of their surroundings for many yards. Besides, they had predator calls and long practice with the devices enabled them to imitate the shriek of a dying rabbit to perfection. Even the sharp-eared prowler could not distinguish the wails and trebles of the calls from the real thing. Both hunters carried lights and used them at intervals to scan the clearing. The beams wjould flash out, arc across the area at slightly more than ground level, and then retrace their sweep. The eyes of any predator coming to the call would be reflected in the brilliant beams.

Lyle Sendel of Chadron continued to call while his younger partner, Mike Crawford, also of Chadron, manned one of the powerful five-cell flashlights. They sensed that something was approaching their hideout but they couldn't see the cat. Five minutes had passed since Mike had beamed his light toward the back of the stack, so Lyle switched on his light and scanned to the rear.

The bobcat left the edge of the cover and stalked toward the stack, trying to pinpoint the squeals which seemed to come from it. The "rabbit" squealed again and the curious stub tail tossed away his natural caution and closed with a fast trot. Lyle's light caught him, 10 yards away from the stack. Ignoring the light, the cat moved in for the kill.

"Quick," Lyle whispered. "Cat and he is coming fast." Mike looked along the beam of his partner's light and instantly reacted for the prowler was now less than 10 feet away. Surprised, the hunter snapped his .243 around and fired from the hip. The bobcat went over backwards in a lifeless heap as the speedy slug caught him in midstride.

Lyle and Mike had added another tally to their long list of predator calling successes. The two Chadron men became interested in this highly specialized sport about three years ago. Lyle operates a body shop in Chadron and his younger companion clerks in an auto parts store in the same community so the pair gets together often for a go at their favorite sport. It wasn't too long after they started calling that they began having some exciting episodes in their forays against raccoon, bobcats MARCH, 1966 9   and coyotes. Proud of their skill with the calls, Lyle and partner are ready to demonstrate their proficiency at the drop of a hint.

I had wanted to do a story on predator calling for a long time but I was never able to pull it off. When I heard of the Chadron pair and their success, I got in touch with Lyle. All it took was a phone call from Lincoln to set up a hunt.

Late one December afternoon I met Lyle at his home in Chadron and almost before I knew it he was in the car and we were heading for the Badlands, Lyle's favorite spot for calling bobcats. It was unseasonably warm for so late in the year and the sky was as clear as the proverbial bell. I wondered if the mild weather would influence our hunt but Lyle seemed confident that we would score.

"Mike couldn't make it but he'll be along in the morning," Lyle said as we rode along. I turned off the blacktop on Highway 2, north of Crawford, and headed for the Badlands as Lyle described some of his more unusual experiences with the call including the episode that opened this story.

"How do you think this daylight calling will work on cats?" I asked.

"Late afternoon and evening hunting will be the best," he replied. "I guess you know this new regulation on the use of a light will be tough on predator callers." "Yes," I agreed, "it is now illegal to hunt anything at night with a handlight except raccoon."

"I'm sure that all is not lost. There is always some movements of cats and coyotes just about sunset. Daytime hunting isn't the best in Nebraska, but I'm sure that the animals will move better on some days than on others, so we may have to revise our hunting a bit," he replied.

"From the looks of your equipment about the only thing you'll have to do is use a little bit better cover to call from," I offered.

"We started out with camouflage gear, which we feel is all important," Lyle stated. "This daylight calling will probably be more successful if we use camouflage paint on our faces and hands too, but I don't have any right now so we will have to get along without it."

"Another thing we use is a scent to kill human odors. Mike and I have found that turpentine works well. It has a strong smell and we feel the animals are used to smelling pine pitch here in the Ridge so they accept it," my companion continued.

Entering the Badlands, we turned west into Earl Norman's ranch. We stopped and got permission to try calling along the creek that trickled out of the Toadstool Park area and across his ranch. We chatted with Earl awhile and then got ready to hunt.

"Try the draw below the dam," the rancher said as we turned to leave. "I've seen a cat or two arounthere this fall."

"Don't make any more noise than you have to, Gene," Lyle warned as we left the car. "There is always a chance that a cat or coyote is nearby. Another thing, Mike and I always try to stay off the skyline while walking into an area. One sight of a hunter is all any of these predators need to hightail it out of the country."

The dam formed an irrigation pond, just below the fill where the creek cut its way through the tortured terrain of the Badlands. Its cover was typical of northwestern Nebraska. There were some sage, yucca, and willow which made excellent habitat for cottontails. They in turn attract the predators. Picking a vantage point just below the fill, we scanned the bottom.

"If we get behind this bank, we can keep well hidden and still see the whole creek bottom," Lyle said. He slipped a full clip of 50-grain ammunition into his .222 Magnum, checked the scope, and laid the rifle in front of him.

"Keep your eyes open," he jested, "I am going to call a cat out of here."

The call screamed its mournful chorus through the silence of early evening. While we waited I noticed that the sun was half submerged on the west wall of the Pine Ridge and that a full moon was heaving itself over the eastern horizon. The stage was set but the play needed one more actor.

Two minutes passed, then five more while the call continued its enticing (continued on page 56 )

THE FLYING FISHERMAN

SHORT WEEKENDS, long distances, and an incurable itch to fish are often incompatible, but Dr. Charles Carothers, a Lincoln dentist, solves that dilemma the easy way. He flies to Nebraska's top fishing spots and probably gets in more angling during a month of weekends than most Lincoln-based sportsmen get in a whole season. Harlan County Reservoir is a case in point. Harlan is a far piece from Lincoln. To go there by automobile takes at least three hours and, of course, the return trip is just as far and just as time consuming. Subtract the traveling time and there aren't very many hours left for actual fishing. Carothers can make it in 90 minutes to add a lot more hours to his fishing pleasures.

One chilly October morning, Dr. Carothers arrived at the Lincoln Municipal Airport and went through the necessary preflight check on the little Tripacer which was to take him southwest to Harlan. The plane belongs to a Lincoln flying club and the dentist is a member of that organization so he gets a chance to use it at a 12 considerable savings over regular charter or rental planes.

Once the safety-insuring formalities of clearance by radio were over and the plane nosed skyward, the pilot settled back to enjoy the exhilaration he always feels in the air. A busy office schedule seemed far behind as the dentist checked and rechecked his position and course by chart and radio compass. It seemed no time at all before the concrete span of the dam and its 12-mile-long lake glided into sight.

Circling for a landing, the plane nosed down to the dirt runway. The strip was far rougher than the one at the Lincoln Airport, but it was no real test for Dr. Carothers' practiced skill. As the Tripacer taxied to a stop, a pickup pulled up at the end of the field. Two men jumped out and strode toward the plane.

"Doc Carothers? I'm Lloyd Bradshaw, and this is Stan Shoemaker." The stocky man nodded toward his slighter-built companion. "Just grab your stuff and we'll get on down to the spillway. Hope you brought a life preserver. Nobody can get beyond the warning sign to the fishing chairs unless he is wearing one."

For answer, the pilot pulled a preserver out of the compartment behind the cockpit. "I brought an open face spinning outfit strung up with six-pound test. Is that heavy enough?"

"That'll do the job, Doc," Bradshaw replied, picking up Carothers' rod and tackle box. "The Engineers are letting out more water than usual. It's pretty fast in the spillway, but Stan has already caught one while we were waiting for you. Here, put your gear in the back."

Doc, readily accepting his name for the day, dropped his preserver and waders over the 13   tailgate. A channel catfish gleamed from the truck bed.

Shoemaker turned to look at the plane as he held the door for Doc. "You know, I really love flying. Been up quite a bit and even took some lessons."

Doc's promise of a ride aloft after the day's fishing instantly earned him a friend for life. The truck rolled over the nearly 12,000-foot-long face of the dam. A boat slipped past, trolling along the lower edge of the lake.

"The reservoir has done more for the people of this area than anything I know of," Bradshaw commented. "I operate a little restaurant at Franklin, and I can sure say it helped my business. Lots of other people around here feel the same way."

Stretched across the Republican River, two miles south of Republican City, the reservoir backs up nearly 13,500 acres of prime fishing water. White bass, crappie, and walleye are angling favorites in the lake, with catfish stealing the show in the fast water below the 150-foot-high concrete spillway. The lake with its many bays takes in 58 miles of shoreline. Built by the U. S. Army Corps of Engineers, it covers 31,500 acres of federal land, all of it is open to public use.

The truck rolled to a stop on a road below the dam on the edge of a rock-strewn bank. The three fishermen climbed out and assembled their gear. While Doc donned his waders, Lloyd selected two large split shot from a plastic container and laid them on the tailgate.

"Put these on. You don't need too much weight the way we're going to fish," the guide said. He hooked a brightly printed semi-circular preserver around the small of his back. "And don't forget the preserver. The authorities will run us out if we don't have them on. The water's not deep, but it is fast and the bottom is slick."

Doc slipped into his more conventional kapoc-filled vest and followed his companions over the rocks toward the roaring water. A platform stood on angle iron legs in the shallows. Farther out were more, some of them tipped over in the racing current. Apparently these were the "fishing chairs", just something to grab on to to keep from getting swept away.

Lloyd pointed *to a paper cup stuck in the top of his breast waders. "Best way I know of to carry your night crawlers. Any other way, they would soon be waterlogged. Also, this gunny sack is a big help for keeping fish. Put them on a stringer and you will soon have them wrapping around your legs and punching holes in your waders with their sharp spines."

Doc stepped into the swirling current. His waders pressed cold against his legs as he made his way toward the first chair. Stan came up beside him.

"That next one out is our chair," he shouted above the roar of the spillway. "They are sort of like duck blinds. If anyone uses someone else's chair, he is kind of obligated to move on when the owner comes along. I'll leave this heavy rig here to work in the current."

He baited the larger of two outfits he was carrying and cast downstream. The platform had rod holders around the edge, and there was a wire basket for bait.

Lloyd stepped around the chair. The fancy red and white half-doughnut of kapoc seemed incongruous on his rugged frame. "Here's the way we do it," he explained.

He cast about 25 yards upstream and let the current tumble the bait to a point directly downstream.

"Usually a couple of casts will bring you a catfish, but it's been kind of slow lately. We will catch fish, though. You are with a country fisherman now," he grinned.

Lloyd waded across the water, moving steadily. Doc watched Stan follow, buffeted by the current and slapping waves. The Lincolnite baited his rig and tried an exploratory cast, stepping into deeper water. His feet started skidding along the slick bottom, and he made a wild grab for the safety of the chair. Cold water trickled down the front of his waders as a big wave struck.

Dr. Carothers braced himself and fought the 50 yards of water between him and the next chair. An occasional wave slopped over his waders as he struggled past Stan to the safety of the rusty framework. Shoemaker's shout was muffled by the roar of (continued on page 53)

THE RETURN OF STANDING BEAR

STANDING BEAR, CHIEF of the Poncas, sat in stony silence as the two white lawyers argued the fate of his people. Lines etched years of pain and grief into the great man's face. His eyes, misty yet hard, followed the proceedings, but did not see. Lost in thought, he recalled the days when it all began.

It was a Sunday morning in the autumn of 1876 when he first sat listening to the white man's words of a new home in Indian Territory, Oklahoma. The missionary told of the great advantages the Poncas would find in the land to the south. Standing Bear, like the others who listened, was shocked at first by the thought of leaving their ancestral home on the Niobrara. Here their fathers had hunted game in the verdant hills, and tilled their gardens on the river banks. Here their ancestors were buried. And now the white men wanted to take away the land promised to the Indians.

But, the Poncas refused to move. They would rather fight and die for their home than leave it. Then, they weakened. It was decided that 10 chiefs would make the journey to Indian Territory to decide on its merits.

Standing Bear watched as the chiefs departed, accompanied by blue-coated soldiers. He fought back tears as he thought that this might be the first of many links with the move he hated.

The little procession of Indians and soldiers wound across Nebraska's plains. Relentlessly, they pushed onward as if in prophecy of the growing American dream which sought to push the Ponca from their lands. Then, weary after many days of travel, they reached their destination, Indian Territory.

This was where the white man wanted his Indian brothers to live. The chiefs stood on a small hillock and looked out over what was to be their domain. Stretched before them for as far as the eye could see, lay a barren wasteland. Rocks studded the earth that they would have to farm. Silently, the Indians turned from the scene and started home to the cool banks of the Niobrara. But, the soldiers were gone and so were their horses. Unable to convince them to stay or to bring the rest of their people, the troopers left the 10 in the wilderness without horses or money. They were alone.

Slowly the chiefs began to make their way back to their home on foot. The trail was hard and slow. They picked corn from fields as they went and ground it into meal for food. They slept on the hard, prairie sod at night. As they moved northward the snows set in. Cold and alone, they reddened the white mantle with bloody tracks as jagged rocks tore at their feet through worn moccasins. For 50 days they fought on, trudging painfully from Indian Territory to the Otoe Reservation in Nebraska.

At the reservation their kinsmen, the Otoes, gave them horses and they continued their journey back to where Standing Bear and their expectant people waited. Their report was evident as these messengers of fate rode into the Ponca camp. The tribe again voted to stay and not a lodge pole moved.

Spring came in 1877, and the Poncas planted their fields as they had for generations. But this year was different. An army officer and a command of heavily MARCH, 1966 17   armed cavalry came to move the Poncas to the new reservation to the south. Under the troopers' guns, Standing Bear and his people packed their belongings and began the long trek, knowing that they would never see their home again.

Herded like animals across the plains, the Poncas' found the move worse than they had imagined. There were no roads and the captives left a trail of red from sore and bleeding feet. Then the rains came. Wagons had to be pulled by weakened braves and squaws alike. On they trudged. Many of the red men fell sick from the change of diet and the constant pace. They were cared for as well as possible, but the pace did not slacken. At Milford, Nebraska, a tornado ripped their tents to shreds and destroyed their wagons. There, too, Prairie Flower, Standing Bear's daughter, died after a long sickness and was buried.

Tears rushed to the chief's eyes and he shifted slightly in his chair, but no one noticed in the buzzing courtroom. The memory of his beloved daughter brought sadness to the great man's face, and then it was gone. His spirit left the courtroom again, and returned to haunt the steps of that forsaken pilgrimage.

From Nebraska they marched across the rolling plains of Kansas. Always under the watchful eye of their military guard, they pushed on. At last they reached their new home. Sadness filled the Ponca's hearts as the jagged rocks on the land they must farm floated on a fiery haze of this earthly Hell. The soldiers had gone and they must live. Hopefully they placed their lodge poles in the foreign soil. Hopefully they tilled the dry, sandy earth and planted their crops. But, nothing lived to bring them strength. Within a year 158 of Standing Bear's people died.

Silently, he gathered family and friends together. With three covered wagons drawn by ponies, the 30 NEBRASKAland Poncas started back as they had come. They took no leave, but struck out on their own to the banks of the Niobrara rather than die in this barren place. They had only $20, but their determination thwarted their need for money. For 10 weeks they braved the elements and fought for survival. The plains journey was harsh, but they pressed on. Ten weeks after they left their people in Indian Territory, they made their way into Omaha Agency, Nebraska. They had won.

The Omahas welcomed their Ponca brothers and gave them the warmth of their lodges and the sustenance of their game. Spring came once again to Nebraska, and Standing Bear and his people again tilled the rich soil. All was well. Then orders came from Washington. Again Standing Bear and his Poncas were marched away from their home and taken to Fort Omaha by General Crook.

At Omaha a newspaperman, T. H. Tibbies took up the Ponca's fight. His pen told Standing Bear's story to all. And his tongue shouted it from church pulpits again and again. But, Washington was not easy to convince. Money had been appropriated for the move to Indian Territory, but there was none to sustain the Poncas on the Niobrara. The government said that if Standing Bear and his people were allowed to run away from the reservation, all Indians would do the same to create chaos with the whites. The Poncas felt another blow as they found that their old lands had been given to the Sioux. By treaty with the United States these lands were theirs. Now the hostile Sioux, who fought the whites for so long, roamed the Ponca's home.

But, two white lawyers, John L. Webster and Andrew J. Poppleton, took up the Ponca's fight. In court at Omaha, they required General Crook to show cause for holding the Indians. Crook showed his orders from Washington, and the two attorneys subsided for the moment. But now they were fighting again.

Standing Bear's wrinkled face furrowed into a gentle smile as he sat in the courtroom in Omaha. It was good to have white men defending him. It was good, but it was strange for whites, not so much different from those who stole his lands, to be helping him. He smiled again, more to himself than to anyone else, and then turned his attention to his attorneys.

They spoke decisively and well. Each in his turn making point after point in Standing Bear's defense as the proud chief listened. They quoted from great papers he did not quite understand. The Magna Charta and the United States Constitution, they said, stated that all Poncas were free. One man, G. M. Lambertson, a United States District Attorney, stood against Standing Bear, but slowly his arguments dwindled and he fell under Webster and Poppleton's persistent attack. And then all was still. The defense rested.

Judge E. S. Dundy looked out over the court. Slowly he spoke. "All men," he began, then faltered. "All men," he began again, "be they white or Indian, have the right to separate themselves from . . ." the words trailed off into nothingness for Standing Bear. A surging warmth filled him. He had won. On the words flowed, on and on, until they seemed to fill the room. But the Ponca chief did not listen. He had won.

Standing Bear and his little band returned to their home on the Niobrara. Their number grew to near 300. But the rest stayed on in Indian Territory and a life of toil.

Standing Bear had returned to the land he loved, and he died there in peace. But, when he died, he knew that because of him and his gallant efforts, Indians would hold their heads high and say, "We are men." THE END

BRANDED

THOUGH THE BAWLING calf doesn't know it, that red-hot branding iron on his flank sizzles with a wealth of history. Branding didn't begin in Nebraska, but when the hide-searing practice made its way up the Texas Trail, its arrival was greeted by cheers of joy and sighs of relief from the state's weary and confused cattlemen. Nebraska's infant cattle herds that soon mushroomed into giants, posed an ownership problem which was too often settled over blazing six-guns. Branding offered a much more gentle solution. Since cows looked quite a bit alike, the symbols they wore made it considerably easier to tell Jake Brown's Bossy from Clete Smith's Bessy on the open range. Each brand was as individual as the man who owned it and before barbed wire fenced the range, branded herds were relatively safe from ownership squabbles. But the important contribution that branding made to Nebraska's cattle industry was just another step in its evolution.

Scholars claim that branding began in Egypt about 4,000 years ago. Drawings and inscriptions on the walls of ancient Egyptian tombs date the practice back to the day when the pyramids were still just twinkles in some Pharaoh's eye. Branding was not restricted to cattle in the ancient civilizations. Greek slaves were branded with a delta, the fourth letter of the Greek alphabet to   symbolize the first letter of doulos or slave. Roman robbers and recaptured slaves bore the letter "F" The Roman word for robber or thief was fur and in the case of slaves the "F" stood for fugitivus or fugitive.

In France, writer Jean Jusserand noted that, in 1400 A.D., horses kept for hire "were branded in a prominent manner so that unscrupulous travelers would not be tempted to leave the highway and keep the steeds." France also used branding as an effective means of personal identification. Until 1832, French galley slaves bore the letters "TF" for travaux forces or forced labor. Human branding also was an integral part of English law. Under the stern hands of the British monarchs, thousands of criminals, slaves, and fugitives felt the searing pain of the branding iron. As late as 1879, British soldiers found guilty of desertion were branded with the letter "D" which was "not to be less than one inch long." However, branding's introduction into Nebraska can be traced directly to the Spanish.

Hernando Cortes brought his three-Christian-Cross brand to North America in the 16th century. And in the years that followed, the Spaniards' Mexican descendants carried on the tradition. The Mexican versions duplicated the intricate styling of family crests. Mexico's northern neighbors quickly realized the practicality of branding and it spread throughout the American West.

In Nebraska branding was an innovation that soon led to confusion. As cattle herds grew, ranchers began to duplicate brands. By 1879, the chaos reached legislative proportions, and a law was passed which prohibited brand duplication within a county. In 1899, the county restrictions were updated to apply to the entire state. The first-come first-served regulation of brand recognition led to some mighty big headaches for Nebraska's ranchers.

One Kimball cattleman searching for an unused brand was lucky. His interest in the Liberty Bell became a tangible symbol when he registered the bell's outline as his brand. But in 1898, H. D. Lewis of Bassett had a lot more trouble selecting a mark. Lewis' diligent searching for an unused brand wasn't doing very well until a friend dropped in.

During their conversation Lewis' fiddle playing popped up. His friend suggested that the instrument would make a good brand and the Bassett rancher leaped at the idea. Before long, beeves decorated with the fiddle brand were grazing across the Sand Hills.

George H. Smith of Chadron was another Nebraska rancher who had his share of problems. After submitting several proposed brands to the State Division of Livestock Brands and Marks, and having them all rejected, he was at his wits end. One afternoon, he happened to glance at a magazine on his living room table. On the back cover was a double arrow or an arrow with a point on either end. Marking in a few minor changes with a pencil, Schmidt mailed the design to Lincoln. His Double Arrow was accepted.

Brands often came from the everyday tools of life in use on the prairie. E. A. Smith of Ogallala chose the hammer brand because it was one of the few tools which a cowboy always had with him. About the first thing a new hand would ask when he signed on was, "Where is the hammer?"

A number of larger outfits had more than one brand. Back around the turn of the century Bartlett Richards and Company managed to fence thousands of acres of prime Sand Hills land and ran an astounding number of beeves. Since the ranch was spread between Lakeside, Ellsworth, Rushville, and Gordon, the company maintained three brands—the Bar 6, Spade, and O Bar.

But no matter how fancy or unique the brand, it means nothing if a cowpoke can't read it. Branding has a language all of its own. Marks are read from left to right, top to bottom, and outside in. A "B" surrounded by a circle is the Circle B, or two "B"s in a row reads as the B B brand. Letters often take on other characteristics and new descriptions by simply turning them slightly from their normal position.

A letter stamped backward is reversed while one lying slightly over on its face or on its back is tumbling. A letter lying on either its back or face is lazy and one with a flare at the top and rounded angles throughout is running. Adding a dash to the left and right at the top makes the letter flying while adding legs makes it walking. If a curve touches a letter it is rocking or if it is not touching it is a half or quarter circle brand.

When two letters touch each other they are connected; however, the word "connected" may be omitted when the brand is read. In the latter case, a circle and a "T" connected might be simply the Circle T rather than Circle Connected T. An angled line running either right or left is a slash.

Character brands were also popular in the old days. If the rancher had a particular affinity to some object he generally used it as his brand. Many symbol or character brands were much too easy to alter, so their use is diminishing. However, as long as the old brands are renewed they will continue. But if one is not renewed for any reason, it cannot be reissued. Today, there are 38,000 brands registered in the Nebraska Secretary of State Frank Marsh's office. However, not all of the brands are in use. When (continued on page 53)

BALD EAGLES OF JEFFREY RESERVOIR

A BALD EAGLE knows how to wait but he also knows how to move when it's time to move. Motionless, the big bird sat in a tree overlooking Jeffrey Reservoir on the Tri-County Canal near Brady, Nebraska. Then without forewarning, the eagle pushed off, skimmed low, and touched down for a brief instant. He swooped up and back to the perch with a silver fish glistening in his piercing talons. Human eyes couldn't have detected the dying shad, struggling near the surface of the frigid water, but to this keen-eyed sky traveler such feats of vision were routine.

More eagles milled nearby in apparent play. Others perched in rigid vigil. Spurning carp and other species of fish spewed out by the power dam, the feeders limited their fishing to shad. The winter concentration of bald eagles at Jeffrey is the largest in the state, at times topping 30 birds.

Driven by hunger from the iced-over ponds of their normal nesting areas, the bald eagles come to Nebraska to satisfy their insatiable appetites for fish. Early in the winter, they are scattered along the Platte and upper reaches of the Missouri rivers. As the season grows colder, the white-heads begin moving and bunching up around reservoirs to take advantage of the open water 25   where fish mortality is high in this changing environment, especially among shad. The bald eagle's preference for fish knows no bounds of honesty. Damned by some and cherished by others as freedom's symbol, this bird, like many heroes, has feet of clay. His angling efforts are often confined to dead or dying fish. He is reputedly guilty of stealing prey from other birds.

For looks, the bald eagle takes all honors. Immature specimens are buff or gray in color, blossoming into white plumage on the head and tail when they become adults. Other names in usage are white-headed and American eagle. Immature bald eagles may be called gray or black eagles, depending on their stage of development. The young mature in three years, but may not have the characteristic white head and tail until they are six or seven years old.

Adult birds are 34 to 36 inches long, with a wing-spread of about 7 feet. Two races of bald eagle are sometimes mentioned, north and south. The so-called southern bald eagle is somewhat smaller than 34 inches in length but the distinction is largely one of geography, since the two cannot be distinguished in the field.

Close kin to the eagles are hawks and kites. The bald and the golden are the only two eagles common to the continental United States. The golden is more of a landbound hunter than the bald, though the bald will occasionally seek out small animals.

Partly because of his eating habits, this sometime Nebraskan is not as plentiful as he once was. U. S. Fish and Wildlife census takers estimate only several NEBRASKAland thousand bald eagles remain in the U.S. The National Emblem Law of 1940 put the bald eagle under protection in the United States, but was not immediately in effect in the Territory of Alaska.

It's estimated that about 50 bald eagles winter in Nebraska, though an accurate count is difficult. Some of the birds seen are just moving through in search of cold-weather quarters. Those at Brady put on an excellent show for the interested observer. They begin showing up about the first of December along the Platte River Valley, with February the peak month to see eagles at Jeffrey Reservoir. Early morning is their preferred feeding time. Bald eagles perch expectantly at favored points of vantage in surrounding trees. When a bird sees a struggling or dead fish, he makes his pass. Often he'll miss, and make two or three tries before the quarry is seized. Each victorious fisherman flies back to his particular branch to devour the meal. The birds emit a maniacal laugh while playing among themselves, a call that is a far cry from the piercing scream so often attributed to the bald eagle. Come evening, the birds head for their roosts along the Platte River. When winds are high the birds spend much of their time soaring.

Despite whatever "faults" he may possess by human standards, none can deny the bald eagle his nobility. Whether he's soaring on motionless, outstretched wings, sitting in a tree near Brady, Nebraska, or embossed on the Great Seal of the United States, this bird is a true symbol of freedom. THE END

PICTURE BOOK PARK

IF YOU ARE the type who insists on making a weekend camping trip an ordeal or turning a two-week vacation into a disappointment, don't visit Ponca State Park. You couldn't turn a stay at Ponca into a disappointing experience if you tried. It is just too darn accommodating. On the contrary, if you crave all the fun and fascination of outdoor living without the rigors of "roughing" it, then Ponca is the place to light. Situated on the picturesque bluffs above the Missouri River, this 495-acre fun spot in northeastern Nebraska is a perfect blend of unspoiled wilderness and man-made conveniences.

Located two miles north of Ponca on Nebraska Highway 9, this 32-year-old park is within easy driving distance of Lincoln, Omaha, and South Sioux City, as well as a host of smaller population centers. Its popularity is growing year by year as more and more vacationers and weekend travelers discover its many-faceted attractions.

A sprawling terrain of steep bluffs, deep ravines, high meadows, and one of the finest stands of hardwood timber west of the Mississippi River make Ponca State Park a natural magnet for thousands of outdoor lovers. It is named for the Ponca Indians, a tribe that roamed this game and fish-rich region long before the white man discovered its bounty and its beauty. Planners were careful not to destroy Ponca's primitive aspect as they developed the park.

Comfortable housekeeping cabins, complete to the last detail, are neatly situated in the park so as to blend, rather than clash with their surroundings. Roads and trails are laid out with an eye to aesthetics rather than straight-line destinations. A guarded swimming pool, a bathhouse, tent and trailer camping areas, and well-marked bridle paths meet public demands for these facilities without destroying or impairing the sylvan solitude of the park. Several miles of self-guiding nature trails are marked out. Some of them are designed for leisurely strolling to an easy-to-reach vantage point. Others can test the stamina of the most determined hiker.

The majestic Missouri River adds the perfect balance to Ponca's attractions. It winds its way below the bluffs to create ever-changing vistas of viewing delights. Camera fans and artists with an urge to capture breathtaking scenics find the river's constant play of light and shadows an endless source of inspiration.

For the angler, the river offers good-to-excellent fishing. Drum, carp, and catfish supply the action with 32 NEBRASKAland gamesters like white bass, sauger, walleye, and black crappie to round out the river's bounty.

Nature lovers are in seventh heaven at Ponca, for there is always a wide variety of wildlife and flora in the park. Since hunting is prohibited, many of the wild residents have somewhat overcome their natural fear of humans. Even the always-suspicious white-tailed deer often permit a close approach for a possible photo. An accurate book on Nebraska's flora will greatly enhance your pleasure in discovering and identifying these wild beauties. Ponca is ringside for the great waterfowl migrations that follow the river at certain seasons.

Even the "bone addicts" have an opportunity to ply their hobby at Ponca, on a look, don't touch basis. Embedded in the ancient rocks are miniature fossils of long-gone sea dwellers.

From the high bluffs, visitors to the park can peer into three states. To the east there are the rolling cornfields of Iowa; to the north, the endless plains of South Dakota; and to the south and west, Nebraska reaches for the horizons.

Charges at Ponca are very reasonable. Completely furnished, two-bedroom cabins rent for $8 a day. Camping space is yours for a small fee. During periods of peak demand, cabins should be reserved in advance. A note to the park superintendent will turn the trick.

Plans are in the making to enlarge Ponca State Park, for demands will soon outstrip existing facilities. More roads, more cabins, and more shelter houses, though, will not impair the park's natural charm. A park planner summed up his department's philosophy toward the coming expansion of Ponca:

"We don't aim to change things just for the sake of change. What we do at Fbnca will be done carefully, with an eye to serving the public but at the same time we are aware of our responsibility to the land itself. After all, nature has been satisfied with Ponca for millions of years; who are we to think we can improve on the original plan?" THE END

PIONEER WITH A BRUSH

SOME MEN CAN turn words into a living world of drama and excitement for every reader. But Charles S. Simmons possesses another form of talent. Through his paintings of Nebraska, the Scottsbluff artist makes the land he loves come alive on canvas. Viewing his works of the state's natural wonders is next best to seeing the real thing. Yet, with all of his talent, Charles is a man who measures his life in events rather than time and every one of his completed works is an event. The Scottsbluff painter works sporadically, sometimes taking three to four months to do a painting, but he gets it done. He loves to talk about his work and the early days in Nebraska. Pulling his ever-present blue beret farther down over his eyes, the 78-year-old artist started reminiscing.

"Art has been my entire thought, but I don't remember much until I was eight or nine years old," he began. "I was going to school in Gering in 1898 when one of the teachers insisted that I come to her house once a week for art lessons. Looking back on it, I think the other teachers probably thought I wasn't tending to my lessons, since I was always fooling with a pencil and paper," he mused.

But at least one teacher was quite taken with the youngster's talent. Each day he had Charlie draw a cartoon on the blackboard for the class to discuss. Though Simmons didn't know it then, those cartoons were the first of the many steps that would lead to a lifetime career in art.

In 1898, Simmons managed to get in the last two or three months of the term before he was needed to work at home. But the next year saw him in school for the entire term. In 1900, the family pulled up stakes in Gering and moved to what is now Scottsbluff. "We actually started the town because we were the first family living here," Charlie chuckled. "The railroad wasn't here yet, but it was definitely on the way. We had to break my schooling that year to make the move. But the next year I went on with my education to the eighth grade level. That was as far as the teaching force went back then," he continued. Even then Charlie was helping out with family finances.

"Just after the turn of the century I started making signs. I kept at it until 1940 or 45 when I tried to push the sign business aside to devote all of my time to painting," he said. Simmons took pride in his business, but there were those who looked down on it.

"Several people told me that anyone could make signs. They said that it wasn't necessary to be as exacting on a sign as on a picture. Maybe they were right, but I always like to think (continued on page 55)

OPPORTUNITY KNOCKS

CURRENT FARM legislation is of direct interest to all Nebraska citizens. The 1965 Food and Agriculture Act includes provisions for a Cropland Adjustment Program which will benefit more than the land and its owners. Perhaps the best way to briefly describe this program is to say that it resembles the Soil Bank Conservation Reserve of yesteryear, yet it is quite different.

It is not my purpose to present the details of this new program, nor am I qualified to do so. The Agricultural Stabilization and Conservation Service through its state and county offices will provide this information. That agency administers the program and has all the answers. If you have cropland that you wish to enter, contact your local ASCS office.

The purpose of this article is to point out the significance of this new program to those of us who are not engaged in agriculture. Of primary interest to con- servationists is the preservation and increase of productive capacity for that day when the American people will need all the food and fiber our fertile land and efficient farmers can produce. In my opinion, the retirement of surplus croplands to soil-building cover is the best conservation idea of today. But the public value of the Cropland Adjustment Program does not stop here.

Any land use program which results in permanent ground cover is very beneficial to the production of wildlife. This is especially true of those species we call farm game, the pheasant, bobwhite quail, and cottontail. These species are fodder in one of Nature's many food-chains, they are prey species that provide food for many predators. For this reason, pheasants, quail, and rabbits are naturally prolific and have high annual turnover. In Nature's scheme of things, they are produced in large numbers and used up in large numbers each year.

To these species, adequate ground cover is all important. It is the barn or hen house in which they survive the winter and which is essential to the successful production and rearing of their young. If the barn has no roof on it and the hen house has half its wall boards gone, survival will be poor and production low. Farm game lives out on the land, not in shelters made by man. Ground cover is the only protection these species have. Without it they perish!

Too many people measure ground cover in terms of what they see and find when they go hunting in the fall of the year. Cover is abundant then, and farm game readily eludes the hunter. However, this is not the critical time of the year for farm game. Midwinter, to and through the nesting season, is the critical period, when cover is least abundant.

In short, we have fine barns and hen houses galore when farm game least needs them, but the roofs are off and half the walls are gone when birds and bunnies urgently need protection. This is why the Cropland Adjustment Program is so important to wildlife. It will help keep roofs on wildlife barns and walls on their hen houses through the most needed times of the year. The ring-necked pheasant is an outstanding example of game that has great need for protective cover. This need is especially critical during the production period of the year. A 10-year study of pheasant production in Nebraska reveals that safe nesting cover, or lack thereof, determines the average pheasant populations found in this state. It is not the harvest of mature roosters but the production and survival of chicks that counts.

Prey species usually have two principal modes of self-preservation. The first is concealment, the second is flight. With ground-dwelling birds and small mammals, both methods of escape are essential. Although the cottontail rabbit can run well, he doesn't have a prayer if he can't reach adequate cover soon. Any time Mr. Bunny can't lose his pursuer quickly in concealing cover, the pursuing coyote, fox, hawk, or eagle will feast on cottontail.

In the case of birds, concealment is the first mode of self-preservation, but flight comes when concealment fails. Quail and grouse will fly when approached 40 NEBRASKAland but the canny pheasant employs a third means of survival. As all hunters know, Mr. Ringneck will run like a rabbit! This is a prime reason why pheasant bags are often small even though the ringnecks are plentiful. In the case of the pheasant, the hunter pursues a quarry that uses three modes of escape, hence survival is better, and the quarry harder to take.

So much for the adult bird, let us now consider production, specifically the pheasant nest and the very young. The pheasant hen can use all three modes of protection, but the nest and chicks have only one, concealment. The odds against survival of the nest and chicks are very high. That is why nesting cover is all-important.

Any permanent cover is valuable, but all cover is not the same. Much of the cover on Conservation Reserve acres is not as productive of farm game as retired acreage could be. For maximum results the pheasant should have annuals that grow tall and erect, but not too densely. Such cover will provide much food, overhead protection for adverse weather, and open understory for travel and escape. Dense, matted stands of alfalfa and brome grass are not attractive to nesting hens. A stand of sweet clover with native grass, in a tall and fairly open stand, will produce far more pheasants than a short and dense stand of cover.

Many readers will remember the tremendous pheasant populations of the 1930's. They will also remember the severe droughts and the great depression of those years While no one wants drought and depression, it is a fact that these forces conspired to produce ideal pheasant habitat. Climatic and economic conditions led to forced and sweeping retirement of cropland. Great acreages of land lay idle, unfarmed and even ungrazed. Nebraska farmers couldn't make it in the face of cruel and extreme adversity. The moment that they abandoned their plowland Nature took up the farming of the idled acres. Ragweed, sunflower, and similar tall, stiff-stemmed annuals were her main crops, while a whole array of short annuals provided ground cover.

All these plants were annuals which produced great quantities of seed each season. Since the pheasant is primarily a seed-eating bird, his food supply was abundant and nutritious. The stiff-stemmed overstory stood erect throughout the winter, providing both food and adequate protection. The understory provided excellent concealment for nests and nesting hens, yet did not hamper travel and escape. Not only was this the finest possible habitat for pheasants, it was present in great abundance throughout our cropland regions. A study conducted by the author during the (continued on page 56)

THE DEFENDERS

FOR MOST OF THE thousands of Nebraskans who go down to the water in boats each summer, Davy Jones's Locker is just another mystical, nautical term. But for relatives and friends of the state's 30 drowning victims in 1964, it is a deadly reality. To families of the lost, these' 30 deaths were not simple statistics, but living, breathing individuals. In many instances their untimely deaths could have been avoided by the proper use of Coast Guard approved lifesaving outfits.

The Coast Guard, official approval agency for these devices,, defines them as life preservers, buoyant vests, buoyant cushions, ring life buoys, and special water safety devices. The latter category includes those worn on the body and those to be grasped by a person in the water. But to John Q. Public, "life preservers" is the general term for all these technically denned lifesavers.

Every boater knows what a life preserver is and what it should be used for, but using them is another matter entirely. An old adage says that "you can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink." The same is true of life preservers. Laws can require them to be carried on all vessels, and enforcement officers can stringently recommend them, but no one can force an adult boater to wear a life preserver. The Nebraska law requires all children under 12 to wear life jackets while aboard a craft of any kind.

The boating public gives many reasons for ignoring lifesaving devices. Some feel that they are too restrictive while others claim that they are only for women and children. But no matter what the reason, a boater MARCH, 1966 43   who flaunts their value while afloat is flirting with tragedy.

From their headquarters in St. Louis, Missouri, Coast Guard authorities wage an unending war on unsafe devices in this area. Unannounced inspections at manufacturers' plants and constant examination of finished goods are two of their most effective weapons. Because of high standards, imposed to keep the area's boaters alive, the Coast Guard's seal of approval goes only to the best of the growing crop of water safety helps.

At present, the Coast Guard approves only kapok and unicellular plastic foam as buoyant material. If kapok is used it must be heat sealed in plastic envelopes to maintain its buoyancy. When buying a life preserver which is filled with kapok, it is wise to run this simple test. Grasp the preserver and squeeze it. If it compresses easily it is a sub-standard article and should be avoided. But if it is hard to depress or resists all efforts it is acceptable. Air trapped inside the plastic envelopes keeps the preserver from being crushed easily and will make it float longer, with better buoyancy than if the material is unsealed.

Balsa wood or cork inserts were quite popular buoyant materials at one time. Now, however, these may be used only if they are still in good condition and maintain their buoyancy. Balsa or cork preservers are no longer available to the public because they had a high absorption rate and became badly waterlogged after long periods afloat.

Covering materials for the preservers are also meticulously inspected. Cotton jean material of varying weights and thread counts per square inch or specially coated upholsterer's material are the most popular covering fabrics. In certain instances, such as buoyant cushions, alternate coverings are given special consideration if they measure up to the tests.

Some manufacturers feel that their products are superior to Coast Guard specifications, even though they do not have official approval. A company that produces a superior buoyant material cannot obtain an O.K. because only kapok and plastic foam fillers are recognized by the Coast Guard. Buoyancy tests run at the factory may prove that the new material is equal or superior 44 NEBRASKAland to kapok or plastic, but certification is withheld. Some manufacturers feel that their industry is growing too fast for testing authorities to keep pace with the new developments.

Inspection and certification are both important in water safety, but it is still a matter of sink or float when a boater is in the water. One southern boater was without a life preserver recently when his boat capsized. He had taken what he thought was a good share of precaution before hand, however. On the assumption that his pant legs would hold air and keep him afloat, he tied the cuffs of his trousers around his ankles. His theory was right, but his procedure was wrong. When the boater hit the water his pants held air, but they kept his feet above water instead of his head. Fortunately, a Coast Guard officer was near by and a tragedy was averted.

Many individual states have taken steps to stem the tide of death on their waterways. Nebraska ranks high on the list of these safety-minded states. The State Boating Law of 1960 combines with Coast Guard regulations for a formidable assault on water fatality tolls. But as with many regulations, the rules are too often ignored. This generally occurs with the novice who doesn't understand the law. But as one's knowledge of water safety increases, the law becomes simpler. Under its provisions all persons aboard a vessel for hire must wear an approved life jacket while the vessel is in motion. No one may manipulate water skis, surf boards, or similar devices unless he is wearing a Coast Guard approved life jacket, or buoyant vest. Ski belts are not under Coast Guard auspices, but may also be worn. All skiers, unless participating in a state recognized regatta or water show, must wear either jackets or belts. Every person aboard must be provided with an approved lifesaving device. Water skiers must be included in the craft's complement since boaters must be prepared to take skiers aboard at any time. Each preserver must be in good condition, and with the exception of cork and balsa wood preservers, carry current Coast Guard approval.

Storage of life preservers is a matter of personal preference. Many sailors leave them in the boat's cabin. If the craft is small, each passenger usually wears his jacket or keeps it near at hand. Seasoned sailors recommend that life preservers be kept in a watertight container which is readily accessible. This container is also a good idea when storing preservers for the winter. It keeps dust and dirt out of them and contributes to their longer life.

Nebraska's number of water enthusiasts is growing at an astounding rate. In 1960, there were 14,000 registered boaters in the state. By 1965, the number climbed to 21,000, an increase of 50 per cent. The Coast Guard and state are doing all that can be done to keep the danger at a minimum, but it is still the individual boater who must decide the success of these programs. A firm groundwork for safety has been established. Now it is up to Nebraskans themselves to reduce the annual drowning toll through the use of common sense and approved safety devices. THE END

NOTES ON NEBRASKA FAUNA... BADGER

IF THE BADGER, Taxidea taxus, isn't the champ excavator of the animal kingdom, he is at least a strong contender for the honor. Admirably fitted for digging, the badger finds his talent handy while searching for food or escaping his enemies. A member of the Mustelidae or weasel family, he is distant kin to the mink, otter, and skunk. Through ages of evolution, he has lost many of the weasel characteristics to become a specialist in his own right.

And digging is his specialty. In a matter of seconds, amid geysers of flying dirt, the badger can dig himself out of sight in practically any kind of soil. If this fur-coated auger is boring to escape an enemy, his work will be accompanied by a great deal of grumbling and snarling.

No pushover in a fight, a cornered badger will attack with go-for-broke ferocity. Even coyotes respect this formidable Westerner; a single coyote seldom if ever takes on a full-grown animal. Dogs prefer to leave him alone for this well-armed brawler can hold his own against a whole pack.

An adult badger is about two feet long with a stocky, close-to-the-ground body, and a short bushy tail. His head is comparatively small, broad, and flat. Strong jaws and long sharp claws are his chief defenses.

This loner of the West is found all over Nebraska. His full range extends east into Michigan, north to Canada, south to Mexico, and west to the Pacific Coast states. He is largely nocturnal but he will often start his night's work late in the afternoon. Industrious, a badger digs out most of his prey but meat of any kind, either fresh or "high", attracts him. Pocket gophers, mice, and ground squirrels are mainstays of his diet but rabbits, skunks, ground nesting birds and their eggs, lizards, snakes, and insects are also on his menu.

Not a true hibernator, the badger tides himself over the lean months by storing up plenty of fat when the foraging is good and food sources plentiful. Fat and drowsy, he loses some of his drive during the winter months and often sleeps for days at a time. An occasional rabbit satisfies his hunger during these periods of relative inactivity. If a group of sleeping skunks is located, the badger will kill and "store" them in underground caches for future meals.

Young badgers are born in the early Spring, following the August or September mating and average about three to a litter, but the number may range from one to five. Mating takes place in autumn or early winter. Mother badger has but one litter a year. The babies are born in a grass-lined chamber from two to six feet below the ground surface with a tunnel varying from six to thirty feet long leading to the chamber. Their eyes open when they are a month to six weeks old. When they are about half grown, they are weaned and the mother brings them food until they are about two-thirds grown when they begin accompanying her on hunting trips. Males assume no responsibilities for their offspring. The young are nearly full grown by autumn and can forage for themselves.

Badgers have little commercial value now but years ago they were prized on the fur markets. Their hair went into shaving brushes, garment trimming, and other uses.

Although not very abundant in most localities, the badger is holding his own in the population race and there is little fear that he will ever disappear from the western scene. THE END

MY GAL SAL

SAL, MY BRITTANY slammed into a solid point. It was one of those rare moments of complete companionship between dog and men. My son, Todd and I maneuvered into position. "O.K.," I snapped, flicking my gun off safety. With a brown and white flash, Sal leaped into the middle of a large covey of quail. Bobwhite scattered in all directions, and our guns boomed. The spaniel was off on a quick retrieve.

That is the way Sal and I hunt. Dog experts are probably shuddering already. I can almost hear them grumbling that dogs shouldn't be allowed to jump the covey or break with the gun.

Sal isn't a perfect hunting dog, I'll admit that. But, 90 per cent of the scattergun toters in York would give their eye teeth to own a dog like Sal. HowTever, 80 per cent of them have been frightened off from training a good gun dog and hunting companion for themselves. There seems to be a common attitude that training and working a good gun dog is a complicated undertaking. To set the record straight, almost anyone can own and train a field dog. You just can't beat hunting with a dog in my book.

I look at it this way. Almost any dog with hunting ancestry will naturally have some hunting instincts. And, a dog with normal animal savvy can learn four or five commands, if taught correctly. Take a dog with hunting instincts coupled with physical soundness, and a few commands under his collar, and you've got a valuable asset in the field.

It would be difficult to pick a puppy from any litter of the sporting breeds that does not have hunting instincts. Of course, some puppies show a little more alertness and curiosity than others. By hunting instincts, I mean the drives that make the animal notice motion and sniff strange scents. A hunting dog that lives up to his name is always eager to investigate new territory.

When buying a dog, I wouldn't advise getting one too young. About six to nine months is perhaps the best age. If you want a top-notcher in the field, don't bring him into the house for the children to maul and the wife to pamper. This is your hunting dog. He and you share a special rapport. Most hunting breeds are more comfortable outside, anyway, provided they have a roomy pen with a warm straw-filled shelter. Sal loves her pen. Except on hunting trips, she is never fed or watered in any place but her kennel and by no one but myself. Her pen is her home. Here, she finds safety, security, food, water, comfort, and a place of peace and quiet. Even when relaxing with me by the fire, she will beg to be put in her pen for the night. But, when Sal is out of it, she knows that my will is her will. A hunting dog cannot be half-supervised and still be expected to perform well in the field. Actually, dogs are like children. They want supervision and gentle discipline.

Training can be summed up in one word—obedience. Slipshod obedience or disobedience won't do. It makes no difference what command words or hand signals you use for training as long as they are the same each time. Whether you use a whistle, rope, training dummy, or scents, the end result must be an obedient dog. After Sal became accustomed to her pen, I took her out for daily training sessions. These workouts didn't last over 10 minutes. Actually, two five-minute ones are better. The point is to keep the sessions snappy because you must give that wagging-tail hunk of friendliness 100 per cent of your attention. Don't let him do anything that you do not supervise him in doing. Of course, supervision and obedience training must never include brutality or unnecessary force. I'm not going out on a limb against punishment because it is a vital part of training if properly handled. You should never call your dog to you and then punish him. Always run to him when he needs correction. I use my cap for an instrument of punishment, and Sal wants that cap to stay on my MARCH, 1966 49   head. I don't believe in rewarding a dog when doing well, I am not one for giving candy coated praise and goodies out every time the dog half-way uses his head. It is important, however, to commend your dog for doing right. When a common bond of love, trust, and friendship exists, "rewards" are not necessary. A dog wants to please. He wants to do what will make you happy. It only frustrates him when he cannot understand what you want.

During these training sessions, I teach one thing at a time but not over three or four repetitions of it each time. Don't multiply your training problems by attempting to teach too much. It is those hunting instincts that you want the dog to use in the field, not a multitude of parlor tricks. If the animal can learn "whoa", "come", "heel", and "sit", he can be a big help to the hunter.

Friends have told me I was "lucky" in the dog I happened to pick. Well, I disagree. So far, I have trained four good gun dogs out of different breeds and each with very distinct personalities. My Brittany is timid and shy. Nugget, a golden labrador, was bold and head strong. Nifty, a beagle, was aloof and unsocial, while Rusty, a cocker spaniel, was the ultimate in cuddly companionship.

I realize these dogs didn't do some of the things a "finished" gun dog should do. Basically, I have had good hunters and that is what matters. Sal and I harvested 84 game birds last fall. As a hunting team, we are tops in my book.

It is important to hunt your dog as much and as often as possible. No person or dog can be a competent hunter with only two or three hunts a year. I hope this article will nudge a few more of you NEBRASKAlanders to try training your own gun dog. Here's wishing you success. THE END

NATIVE SONS

BRANDED

a son is born, his rancher father will often register a brand in his name. When the son is old enough to begin his cattle career his brand is already-established. The number of brands in Nebraska is ample evidence that the practice has come into its own.

Branding's appearance in Nebraska not only settled boiling ownership disputes, it also put quite a crimp in one of the state's biggest businesses — rustling. But then a cowpoke with an eye for a fat heifer and a burning thirst for a fast buck introduced the "prairie pencil", or running iron. Long used for spot branding of strays, the running iron was a straight poker with one end slightly curved. For convenience sake, a saddle cinch ring was often used since it was easy to carry and readily available. By simply putting a green stick through the center of the ring, the cowpoke had a ready-made running iron.

Not confined to any particular brand, an artistic wrangler was free to use his imagination. With a flick of a wrist a man with a bit of larceny in his heart could make alterations to an established brand and it took a little doing to prove that anything was amiss. A tale of one such incident filtered up the Texas Trail from the Lone Star State.

Although Judge Roy Bean had no legal authority for his doings, he set himself up as the "law west of the Pecos". After a while, the owner of the Bar S Ranch complained about losing quite a few cattle. That was all that Judge Roy needed. He disappeared for a few days and then ambled back to town with a string of 20 steers, all marked with the 48 brand. Court convened on the porch of a saloon and the Judge set about his self-appointed task. He pulled his .45, shot one critter, and peeled back the hide. The Bar S brand stood out dark against the flesh while the marks converting it to the 48 were much lighter. It didn't take a Philadelphia lawyer to figure out the switch. In a matter of minutes, a stranger, who was fool enough to claim the 48 steers, was decorating a nearby cottonwood. Today, sharp-eyed brand inspectors and specially-trained investigators can spot an altered brand immediately. But even with all of the tales of rustlers and frontier justice glamorizing the business, branding is still a lot of hard work, just as it was in the days of the Old West.

In Nebraska, the hot iron is the only legal way for the rancher to mark his cattle. This chore is reserved for the spring roundup when all of the cattle are herded together on one range. Two catchers ride into the milling beeves, lariats swinging, in search of unbranded calves. More frightened by the man than the momentary sting of the hot iron, the struggling, bawling youngsters are dragged back to the branding fire where two flankers throw them. Grabbing the toppled animal, the men stretch the calf's legs as far back and foreward as possible to pull the hide tight. Then the brander moves in as his tender pulls a hot iron from the fire. Skill and a steady hand are musts for a brander as he applies the hot iron. For one slip and the mark is marred beyond recognition. In Nebraska's youth, the knife men followed the brander. With experienced fingers they cut identification notches into the beeves' ears and castrated the bulls. Ear notches provided an easy means of distant identification. When a rider approached an animal, the notches were visible long before he was within brand-reading range.

In later years stock vaccination swept over Nebraska like a prairie fire and the needle men joined the branding operation. Vaccinating the beeves was only part of their job. In addition they took over as medicine men and smeared the fresh burns with a healing salve. Once singed, the calf is released to hightail it to his mother. Each animal is recorded by the tally man who totals the number in the herd and the number of newly-branded calves.

In the old days the branding iron was seldom cold, for the sale of a critter brought it into play again and again. Bills of sale were few and far between way back when, and in order to seal the deal the original brand was "vented". A new owner simply burned a straight bar across the old brand and added his own. So it went, sale after sale, owner after owner. After several changes in owners, a steer's hide looked like a traveling brand book. To avoid confusion, one outfit simply burned a line the entire length of the critter. Although some vented brands still exist, the practice is disappearing. Bills of sale are prominent and plentiful while the selling price of unmarked leather and popularity of leather keep branding to a minimum. It is not compulsory to have a brand in Nebraska, but if a rancher does use one the law requires it to be registered with the Secretary of State's office in Lincoln.

Many of the Old West's traditions have carried over into today's cattle country, and the brand book is one of the most enduring. A brand book is as much a part of a cowboy's outfit as his hat. These books vary from individual to individual. A rancher's book might be leather bound and well cared for while his hands get by with nothing more than a sweat-stained and scribbled-up tablet. But no matter how the books look they contained much the same information. Brands of the area, lists of stolen or strayed critters, and crude maps of drive routes are all there for-a quick reference. Today the brand book has taken on a refined flare. It is the task of the Secretary of State to compile the brands of this state and to publish them in a volume available to all for a statutory price. The Brand Division has an efficient method of tracking down stolen cattle through arrangements with the stockyards.

Branding has come a long ways in its 4,000 years. Today, it is much more tightly regulated than it has ever been in history. But basically the process and the purpose is the same, a quick and easy method of establishing ownership of a critter who doesn't give a dang who owns him. THE END

FLYING FISHERMAN

the water, but Doc turned at the faint sound in time to see a windmill of elbows and arms as the fisherman lost his footing. Stan quickly regained his feet, but started wading back to shore. The soggy figure pointed to himself and the high concrete wall with its scattered fishermen. No more of this for him. He would take his chances on the wall. The fishing might not be good but it would be drier.

From a point near the far bank, Lloyd shouted, "Got one!" The burly angler raised a tightly-arched rod. Doc clutched the reassuring wet iron and watched. Bradshaw's rod bounced and the dentist could see his companion frantically give, then gain line.

It finally ended with Lloyd holding up a big catfish for Doc to see. Popping the three-pounder in the burlap bag, the cafe owner motioned to Doc to try for a chair farther out in the channel.

Game for anything, the flying fisherman waded in and worked his way out by short steps. The security offered by the next platform was less promising than the haven Doc was leaving Water slid across its gleaming surface which dipped at a crazy angle.

The dentist made a final lunge and pulled himself onto the wobbly structure. He flipped the crawler upstream and let it coast back past him, along side a clump of dancing reeds. His rod tip jerked savagely.

Doc heaved back in retaliation and the Fiberglas bent. He fought the fish back and forth in the swift water. Slowly he retrieved line until he slid the battler bodily onto the platform Doc MARCH, 1966 53   was surprised at the small size of the catfish. He would only go a pound or so.

"Even an old tin can would give a pretty good battle in this stuff!" he shouted to Lloyd.

But .his companion had problems of his own. Already another fish was seesawing across the current. The old pro plied his rod deftly and soon had another nice cat. This was enough for Doc, who slid back into the water and made tracks to Bradshaw's position near a point of brush. Lloyd grinned, steady as a stump in the churning river.

"Guess we're about out of night crawlers. I've got some garden-type worms and some packaged shad. Sometimes they are fine bait above the dam. They give off an oil slick that seems to draw the cats!" he shouted.

Doc moved into a better position and started casting. "I've flown to places like McConaughy, Red Willow, and Merritt reservoirs, but this is about as exciting a trip as any I've made," he chuckled.

Lloyd flipped his bait free from a clutching snag. "We've got a lot of fine fishing around here most of the year. I've fished when it was so cold that I had to dip my reel in the water to thaw the line a little." He tensed as his rod bounced. But the nibbler was not buying and Lloyd missed him.

Doc settled down to mechanical cast, retrieve, cast for about an hour. He glanced at the dam and felt small beside the 150-foot wall and its torrent of water crashing into the neck of fast current where he stood. His rod dipped sharply, reminding him of the business at hand.

The catfish felt like a good one, but the dentist decided he was a poor judge of fish weight in the churning current. He countered each rush until the fighter was worn down. When the angler finally popped the catfish into Lloyd's sack, the salty veteran grinned an unspoken "well done".

Doc squinted against the October sun. "I suppose I should start working back to shore. I don't want to fly after dark."

Lloyd nodded and the two started making their way back. Three pansize catfish joined them before the pair reached the shallows and stumbled up the rocks to the truck.

Stan was waiting for them, empty-handed, but looking comfortable in a 54 NEBRASKAland dry set of clothes. "What's the matter, Doc," he quipped, "you take a dive, too?"

The Lincoln man grinned, "Nope. These breast waders leak, mostly at the big hole around the top." He pulled off the wet fabric and poured out some of the Republican River. His shirt and trousers clung to him, hardly a dry spot showing. The trio mounted up and drove back to the plane.

Before he left, Doc thanked his companions with the promised aerial spin over the dam. Stan was absorbed with the sheer fascination of flight, checking the instrument's and asking about the plane. Lloyd pointed out fishing spots and places where deer hang out. The pilot took mental notes of the landmarks and hot spots Lloyd mentioned.

When it was time for good-byes back at the field, the three resolved to try the whole thing again some time. "When the fish are biting," Lloyd amended, joking.

As the Tripacer soared on its way back to Lincoln and a dentist's busy Monday at the office, Dr. Carothers computed his time of arrival. There wouldn't be too many fall weekends left that he could reserve for fishing. But there is always hunting. Now, there was a rancher about an hour's flying time out of Lincoln who ... he went several miles off course just thinking about it. THE END

PIONEER WITH A BRUSH

that there are few people who can print our alphabet correctly," he laughed. In 1909, Simmons took time out from signs for more education.

He enrolled in the Chicago Art Institute for a three-month course. If Charlie was cocky over his natural talent when he arrived, it didn't take long for the instructors to take it out of him.

"The first drawing I made was of no value whatever. The instructor practically tore it up," Charlie recalled. It was then and there that he learned the facts of life concerning art. "One of the teachers took me aside and told me to paint what I saw and felt, not what he wanted me to paint," he said. With his new-found knowledge at the ready, Charlie launched into his next project.

"We were to make a charcoal drawing of a bust of Voltaire. Our class picked out positions around the statue and began to draw as the teacher circulated among us making suggestions," Simmons noted. Evidently the Nebraskan's second endeavor met with approval because he had no further trouble. Reflecting on his stay in Chicago, Charlie noted, "That was my only schooling in art except for continued work in the field." His studies completed, he left the big city and headed back for the wide open spaces and his beloved Nebraska. Prior to his Chicago stint, Charlie worked with pencil and charcoal. At the Institute he started MARCH, 1966 55   with oils and they became his lasting favorites.

Unlike many artists, Simmons does not paint from memory. "I'll sit out in the wood ticks for hours, making a preliminary sketch before I'll put anything on canvas," he said. Once the sketch is complete, he transfers it to the canvas with a series of pencil dots madeN through the lines of the sketch. Skies are particularly hard to capture in oil. "Since cloud formations and colors are constantly changing, I find that using color magazine pictures is much easier than trying to paint them from memory, or rough sketches," he explained.

Although painting is his first and only love, the call of adventure was strong when Charlie was a young man. In 1914, he took a job as a bookkeeper for a construction firm working on the border of Montana and Canada. "Our job was to divert the water of the Saint Mary's River into Montana. I stayed with the job from May to October and had the time of my life," Simmons beamed. "At our headquarters on the Blackfoot Indian Reservation I found that the clay could be molded. I didn't have much time for drawing, so I began to sculpt the Indians in clay, as much to their delight as mine. As I finished each bust, I put it out beside the building to bake in the sun," he continued. "When the job was completed we moved on, but in 1936 I went back to the old campsite. There in the earth I found pieces of my sculpture still intact." Charlie found art subjects everywhere, but as his wanderlust subsided he returned to his boyhood home and continued to develop his talent.

Charlie is a perfectionist; a painting must suit him as well as the buyer before he will sell it. "I have never asked anyone to buy one of my paintings. They are usually sold before they are done, but if they are not, I will only sell them if they suit both of us," he stated.

Art lovers make no contracts with the Scottsbluff artist. If he paints something that might appeal to one of his clients, he will call him, but the prospective buyer is under no obligation. Simmons has never displayed his paintings to encourage sales, but one showing was held to acquaint the public with his work.

"A few years ago several Scottsbluff people, who owned my works, decided that the public should know what I was doing," he said. "They sent out invitations to other owners and some 60 paintings were brought to Scottsbluff for the showing. One even came from Sao Paulo, Brazil, where it was on display in the Eppley Hotel. The show was held in the local YMCA and lasted for two weeks. I spent as much time there as I could, and it seemed to be a success," Charlie recalled.

Joslyn Memorial Art Museum in Omaha also became interested in Simmon's work and requested one of his paintings to send to Washington, D. C, in an exhibit of Nebraska painters.

They took his painting of "The Soddy," a portrait of a western sod house. The Joslyn people kept the painting for over a year and it was displayed in U. S. Senator Roman Hruska's office for the majority of that time. Senator Hruska was quite taken with the painting because it took Charlie quite a while to get it back. "I practically had to beg to get my picture," he chuckled. Many other people have taken a shine to Simmon's work, too. "The Soddy" is probably Simmon's favorite and it is not for sale.

When asked to let their pictures be shown for the YMCA exhibit, several owners were reluctant to let them go. They felt that something might happen and the paintings meant too much to them to be destroyed. Today, there are approximately 258 of Charlie's paintings gracing walls throughout the world and many of the owners feel just as strongly about letting them out of their sight. This pride of ownership is one of Charlie's greatest satisfactions.

"I've lived a full life. Every one of my paintings is an event to me," Charlie summarized. And to hundreds of others, each of Simmons' events will keep his memory alive for generations to come. His love of life, reflected in the'flowing colors of his canvases, has brightened many lives, and no man can ask for much more soul satisfaction than that. THE END

OPPORTUNITY KNOCKS

1930's revealed that 25 per cent of the land, 1 acre out of 4, was idle and growing this type of cover in prime pheasant areas. No wonder the pheasant prospered, he had an ideal environment in which he reached the greatest densities that have ever existed anywhere in America.

With the return of normal precipitation and the advent of World War II and its skyrocketing farm prices, idle land became producing land again, and this productive pheasant habitat soon disappeared. Investigation during recent years indicates that more than 90 per cent of the idled acres went back to farm use. The Conservation Reserve was brought on by production and surplus crops, but it helped restore much habitat that has been a substantial factor in the production of pheasants and other farm game.

Conservation Reserve contracts are now expiring in large numbers and the retired acreage is rapidly diminishing, but a better plan is provided in the Cropland Conversion Program. Beginning with 1966, an estimated 40 thousand acres will be retired in the next four years, under a plan which can benefit those who help pay as well as those who receive the rentals. The program provides for converting retired croplands to recreation and wildlife production use. Added or "bonus" rental payments are available to landowners who make their retired acres available for these uses.

This is of special interest to Nebraska and Nebraskans. Such use of the retired acreage will in no way impair the value of the land, yet yield a welcome dividend to both the farmer and the general taxpayer. Everyone can benefit from the Land Conversion Program. It provides a golden opportunity to help solve the problem of surplus farm production with public activities which will benefit all citizens. Conditions in Nebraska are such as to promise major social and economic benefits under the Cropland Adjustment Program. Let us make the most of this opportunity. THE END

CALLING ALL CATS

wails. It was all of 10 minutes before Lyle turned slightly and whispered. "Cat —down the draw, about 200 yards."

Scanning the shadows, I picked up the movement of the approaching predator. The animal stopped and Lyle eased up on the volume. The cat ghosted from one clump to another, cautiously narrowing the distance. He followed the north bank of the creek, dropped out of sight behind a slight rise, then reappeared, and sat down, searching for the source of the sound.

"He is still a hundred yards away," Lyle whispered excitedly. "I would like to halve that distance before I chance a shot. In this dim light I want all the advantage I can get."

Taking a small call from his pocket, the Chadron hunter imitated the squeak of a mouse. The bobcat reacted to the enticing sound and went into his stalk. Lyle eased his hand forward and gripped the rifle as the cat continued his purposeful approach. As the animal came in, I realized that in this sport of predator calling, the hunter can appreciate the hunted, because for all practical purposes, the cat was the hunter and we, the hunted.

Forty yards out, the stub tail stopped between two clumps of sage. Lyle eased

NEBRASKAland TRADING POST

FIBERGLAS CANOES. Three exciting models, Easily assembled kits. $29.95 up (factory direct). Free literature. Riverside Canoes, 5821 Victoria Avenue, Riverside, California.

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AKC BRITTANY spaniel puppies. Natural pointers and retrievers, from hunting parents. Top quality, attractive markings. $25. Roger Fattig, Brady, Nebraska.

BRITTANY SPANIELS, registered, nationally known champion sires, pups, older dogs. Reasonable, terms, extras, shipped. Embrheights, Box 5, Beaver Dam, Kentucky.

GUN DOG and field trial. Retrievers and all pointing breeds. Boarding year-round, clean concrete runs; best of feed and care. Labrador stud service. Well bred puppies for sale. Platte Valley Kennels, Route 1, Box 61, Grand Island, Nebraska.

HUNTING DOGS: German Shorthairs, English Pointers, Weimaraners, English, Irish, and Gorden Setters, Chesapeakes, Labradors, and Golden Retrievers. Registered pups, all ages, $50 each. Robert Stevenson, Orleans, Nebraska. COLLAPSIBLE Farm-Pond Fish-Traps: Ani- mal Traps, postpaid. Free information, pictures. Shawnee, 3934-Ax Buena Vista, Dallas 4, Texas.

AMAZING Fishing Secrets! Catch any fish including catfish. 20 minutes. Guaranteed. Information $1.98. Frank Lacy, 626C North Newlin, Whlttier, California.

FISHERMEN: Catch all the white bass you want and your limits of sauger, walleye and northern. Use a white or yellow SKITTER JIG. Send $1 and receive two ^-oz. jigs postpaid. SKITTER PRODUCTS, 205 South 15th Street, Norfolk, Nebraska.

ATTENTION RELOADERS—We don't sell catalogs. We just sell quality and service. We are jobbers for and carry a complete stock of these lines: Alcan, Bushnell, C. C. I., Dupont, Eagle, Hodgdon, Hornady, Hercules, Lee Loaders, Lyman, Lawrence Shot, Norma, Redfield, Remington, RCBS, Shur-X, Speer and Texan. Walter H. Craig, Box 927, Selma, Alabama. Phone 872-1040.

TERRIFIC VALUES: "MEC" 601), Jr. reloaders $43.50. Redfield Scopes 3x-9x, $67.50; 2x-7x, $62.50. Leupold Scopes 3x-9x, $62.65; 2x-7x, $55.65. Hodgdon Rifle Powder ir4831-100 lbs., $64.50'. Everything Prepaid. ESMAN'S. Turtle Creek 20, Pennsylvania. Free Lists.

WORLD'S Largest Air Arm Supply House. Match and Sporting Pellet Rifles, Pistols, Ammunition, Accessories. Free Catalog. ARH, Grantsville, West Virginia.

NEW, USED AND ANTIQUE GUNS. Send long addressed 10C-stamped envelope for list, or stop in. Bedlan's Sporting Goods, Fairbury, Nebraska.

BAKE or boil a batch of decoys. Solid plastic Mallards, Bluebills, Redheads, Canvasbacks, Geese, and accessories. The original do-it-yourself decoy kit. Inexpensive, fascinating way to a large set of decoys. Send 250 for details. Decoys Unlimited, Box 69, Clinton, Iowa.

TARGETS: Make your own with rubber stamps. Most popular" designs available. Free literature. Targets, 1065 Taylor Drive, Folcroft, Pennsylvania. 19032

DOES YOUR CHILD appreciate his pioneer heritage? Give him Stake-A-Homestead. It is exciting, hilarious to play. Meanwhile he will gain understanding of the sodbusters' trials and triumphs. For sale by Historical Societies, museum gift shops, and leading stores, or $2.98 postpaid from Woster Games, 906 Avenue D, Plattsmouth, Nebraska.

LIKE SWEET ONIONS? New blue ribbon assortment 600 sweet onion plants with free planting guide $3, postpaid, fresh from Texas Onion Plant Company "home of the sweet onion," Farmersville, Texas 75031

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COLLAPSIBLE Farm-Pond Fish-Traps: Animal Traps, postpaid. Free information, pictures, Shawnee, 3934-AX Buena Vista, Dallas 4, Texas.

BOB-K'S AQUA SUPPLY, Nebraska's largest Scuba dealer. U.S. Divers, Sportsways, Voit, Swimmaster, Scubrapro. Air Station, Regulator Repair, Telephone 553-0777, 5051 Leavenworth Street, Omaha, Nebraska.

WHERE-TO-GO

IF THE SAND HILLS in Cherry County could talk, they would tell you to go directly to Sawyer's Sandhills Museum in Valentine for an enchanting story of wild-west history and pioneer events. There, in an area of 8,000 square feet, a tale as broad and deep as the Sand Hills themselves is told to everyone with an ear to bend and an hour to spend.

Behind the front door of the museum, which faces the rolling grassland, lies a historic collection which includes old rifles, one-cylinder automobiles, Indian artifacts, barroom pianos, freak animals, and a once-bubbling moonshine still. There are items to delight young and old in the 10-year-old museum. Some of the displays are one-of-a-kind spectaculars.

One of the most popular collections in the Valentine show house is the antique autos. Owner G. M. Sawyer has traveled into 30 states and parts of Canada to come up with 24 relics, most of them truly rare. All are in running order. Among unusual old-timers are a 1906 Cadillac in near perfect shape and a 1900 Steamer. A 1911 Austro-Daimler, the only known one of its kind, draws plenty of glances.

The museum is a favorite stop for tourists along scenic U.S. Highway 20, if figures are any yardstick. Scratched in the guest book are the signatures of visitors from every state in the Union. Even tourists from South America, Germany, France, Great Britain, Mexico, and Canada have toured the bright yellow-faced building.

A hot item on any youngster's tour of the attraction are three coin operated music boxes. One is the very first American-made model. Eager fingers can pop a nickel into the slot, and set a metal record in motion that tickles the funny bone of even the dourest of listeners. A honky-tonk piano beats out an old-time tune for a quarter.

Over 100 kerosene lamps, appearing not quite so useless to eastern viewers after a sweeping power blackout in November, 1965, are ready for a wooden match. Fascinating to the ladies are wedding dresses over 100 years old, a set of homestead kitchen utensils, a large selection of dishes, and hundreds of other articles from grandma's era.

A two-headed, five-legged calf with two tails, which was born on a ranch in Cherry County, has been preserved and housed in the museum. Reminiscent of the Texas Trail days in Nebraska is the mounted head of a huge longhorn steer. Another interesting item on display is a horsepowered saw that was used around 1900.

From May to September, Sawyer and his wife, Dorothy, make a day-long operation out of entertaining tourists. The museum doors swing open at 8 a.m. and remain open until the last visitor leaves, normally about 9 p.m. Admission is $1 for adults, while all children are admitted free of charge.

A house of worship seldom doubles as a tourist attraction, but Nebraska has one in the town of Arthur, 34 miles north of Ogallala. The Pilgrim Holiness Church is certainly not the biggest church in the world, nor the prettiest, nor the oldest. But it is the only church in the world built from baled hay.

The 28 by 50-foot structure was built in 1928 when timber was at a premium in the Sand Hills. Its rye-straw walls have withstood many a prairie storm since. Stucco has helped keep the unique building intact. Tourists from as far away as South Africa have come to view the "church of the pioneer prayer." It is not open except during Sunday services, but an inquiry at Arthur will open the door at any time.

Not long ago, the baled hay church was featured in Ripley's "Believe It Or Not." The tiny church is a lasting symbol of the determination and perseverance of those who never lost their respect for their Creator despite the hardships of pioneer life. THE END

(continued from page 56)

the rifle to his shoulder, the click of the safety sounding like a shot to my tense nerves, but the cat paid it no mind. Slowly, Lyle lined up the rifle on the target and took a deep breath. He squeezed the trigger. The muzzle flashed in the dim light as the shot shattered the stillness of the Pine Ridge. Our bobcat leaped high and disappeared.

'We should have a dead cat down there," Lyle grinned. "Photographers must be born lucky. I figured that we would have to make three or four attempts before we saw a cat or coyote." "How long did it take?" he quizzed as we walked down to the cat.

"Just about 15 minutes", I replied, looking at my watch. "I might add that I don't think this was photographer's luck. I have tried to pull a good story out of this predator calling more than once and this is the first time it has turned out to be a roaring success."

The little varmint cartridge had done its work well and it was obvious that the animal was dead before he hit the ground.

"We were a bit lucky," Lyle admitted as he hefted the dead cat. "I have never seen one that was marked any better," I commented. "He will make a striking rug. Look at his claws and teeth!"

"This bob is a good one, all right, probably go between 25 and 30 pounds. I guess you know, Gene, that we made a mistake when we came down here right after shooting this cat. We should have kept on calling. A lot of times, more than one will come in. Once they are interested, a shot doesn't necessarily scare them off," Lyle said.

"Mike and I have had as many as four cats coming into the light at one time. We bagged two of them. Coyotes can be the same. We were calling up north of Chadron one night when we picked up two coming to the light. I kept working on them and Mike swung the light to check behind us and came up with four more. We got a little excited and ended up killing only two," the caller continued.

For the next two days we worked a two-hour period in the morning and again at dark to no avail. Our luck had run out. On the second night, Mike joined us and we tried calling along Cottonwood Creek for coon. After" a couple of fruitless tries, we bagged two that answered the call.

Predator calling is top sport and for my money nothing can beat the challenge and suspense it offers. The cat we bagged was No. 39 for Lyle ; i his partner. They have racked up .0 coyotes, 8 foxes, and a host of raccoons.

Besides the thrills of this unusual hunting, the boys have some hairy memories of past experiences. One happened the first year they started calling. The duo had called along the edges of some buttes, west of Chadron, and finally conceded that nothing was going to show. Returning along a narrow trail, Lyle rounded a small jog in the path and came face to face with a bobcat.

"It all happened so quickly, I really don't know what the cat did but he raised up as though he was going to spring and let loose with a hissing growl. I almost stomped Mike into the ground when I whirled around and fled. I'm sure the cat turned and took off as fast as I did, but I didn't stick around to find out. It seemed that every step I took I could feel his claws landing on my back," Sendel said.

The moon was full on the last night that we hunted. Amid the eerie shadows along Cottonwood Creek, it was easy for my imagination to picture the dramas that take place each night between hunter and hunted. With a predator call, man, if he wishes, can experience both roles. THE END

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Grand Island

Thoroughbred racing at Grand Island's Fonner Park set the pace for year-round recreation in Central Nebraska. They'll be running every day except on Sundays, Mondays, and Good Friday. Plan now to attend this top sporting event.

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