SPEAK UP

GREAT SEASON-"I keep thinking of what a great time we have had hunting pheasants in Nebraska the past two years, and the top-grade hunting we are looking forward to this fall.

"Your NEBRASKAland people are some of the finest in the world. Nobody tried to hold us up or give us the runaround. Every place we went to hunt was posted, but when we asked permission to hunt, we were more than welcome. Only 1 out of 17 landowners refused us and only because he had corn and milo still standing. He told us of another place where we could hunt.

"We were invited in for coffee or lunch at many places and were treated like one of the family wherever we went. The first season we hunted in Nebraska, the four of us only scored 18 birds. The second year we got 29, but this year we hope to make the limit, now that we have both experience and confidence.

"For the four others and myself I want to thank the people of NEBRASKAland and especially those of Comstock for giving us a great season in the past, and for the promise of an even greater one in the future." —William Curr, Bill Cress, Alton, 111., Bob Cleary, East Alton, 111., Ray Widman, Champaign 111., and Bill Rowling, Godfrey, 111.

MORE ON MIDDLETON-"I have just finished reading the article by Bob Snow about the notorious Doc Middleton. My grandparents' home was located a mile and a quarter south of Mariaville, Nebraska. The name of the place was born when two gentlemen sat visiting with grandmother, while her baby daughter crawled around on the floor. One of the men, attracted by the baby's pretty face, asked her name. 'Harriet Maria,' my grandmother told them. *Do you care if we add ville to Maria and name the new postoffice after your daughter?' So it was Mariaville, located 12 miles north and east of Newport, Nebraska.

"Being of an imaginative mind, I loved to listen to the bits of early day history often discussed by my father and his neighbors. Whenever Doc Middleton's name was mentioned, I managed to stay within hearing distance - all ears - as he seemed to me a romantic figure. Posse law prevailed at that time as it had earlier. My father would sometimes tell of how he heard his father and brother talking in low tones, after someone had knocked at the door and asked to borrow a rope. Father was only nine years old at the time so he drifted off to sleep and did not learn if his father and brother joined the posse, though next day Kid Wade was found hanged from a whistling post near Bassett and he was buried on a hill just east of town.

"My father was never in agreement with the posse on this hanging. He had given the Kid a ride on his raft a short time before and had seen him riding through the area several times that summer. Once on a beautiful bay stallion, and another time on a big black, while leading another horse.

"Fences were few, if any, in those days, so travelers came and went as they pleased. Doc and his gang of horse thieves hung out much of the time around Cody. He was a lean, clean-cut young fellow of medium height with dark hair and eyes. It seems the father of two girls in the area was real put out when the Doc came back and stole the younger sister, after the older sister married someone else while Doc was serving sentence. The story of his refusal to steal horses from a poor man came when he and his gang got the news that a rival gang had stolen a poor man's horses down along the Niobrara River, Doc and his gang then shot it out with the other gang and brought the horses back. The man found them all tied up in the barn one morning with a note from Doc, nailed where it could be seen, telling him to let Doc know if anyone took his stock again.

"Grandma fed horse thieves often and when they had gone she sometimes found greenbacks or gold pieces under the plates. One day she had two gangs arrive at the same time and this brought on a flurry of dust, hooves, and shouts." — Keith E. Vamler, Ponca.

SHARP IDEA —"Our family recently returned from a 1,420-mile tour of Nebraska. Prior to leaving we clipped various articles from NEBRASKAland which we thought were of special interest. We took our file along and found many of the sites and felt we knew them better by having your material.

"We traveled the Oregon Trail, saw Scotts Bluff National Monument, the Wildcat Hills, Fort Robinson, Toadstool Park, Snake River Falls, Fort Niobrara Wildlife Refuge, Scouts Rest Ranch, a Pony Express Station, Front Street, Lake McConaughy, the Sand Hills, and the Pine Ridge.

"We have two small children and a tent-camper so were able to be in the area we were seeing. We walked and rode horseback into the hills, and over the grounds. We took movies which we are enjoying now.

This vacation and other weekend trips to Brownville, Arbor Lodge, and Homestead National Monument we feel have instilled in our children some regard for our Nebraska heritage. We are both history buffs and after spending many hours in museums, forts, and antique shops our appreciation for Nebraska's history is even greater." —Mrs. Gary R. Clifford, Lincoln.

SPEED MERCHANTS-"After reading the story about a turtle hunt, To Shoot a Bowl of Soup, in August's NEBRASKAland, shooting seems a rather dull way to get them.

"My buddy and I hunt turtles and if we don't get 10 or more in 2 hours, we figure we're having bad luck. We never shoot them, but probe for them in the mud and pick them up alive. So far, our largest has been 28 pounds. One day we found five large turtles under a stump. It doesn't take us IV2 hours to dress one. We could do five or six in that time." — Alfred Pfeifer, Spalding.

TWO HEARTS-"A friend of mine, Sammy Samuels, in Ashland, Nebraska was cleaning a 12 to 15-pound turtle which I had caught, and found it had two hearts — beating alternately. Is this something uncommon?

"Since we belong to International Association of Turtles, Inc., we are interested in anything about turtles." — L. E. "Curly" Eastabrooks, Gretna.

A turtle with two hearts is considered to be quite uncommon. Your comment about them beating alternately brings another question to mind. The turtle's heart is not a compact organ like a mammal's heart. The hearts have three chambers. Two of the chambers are connected closely while the third chamber is connected but not closely. The two chambers contract together and the third chamber contracts between their contractions. If the heart was not examined closely, it might appear that two hearts were present. — Editor

IMPRESSED —"I took my family on a tour of western Nebraska, wherein we traveled some 1,400 miles and visited many of the major points of interest in the state. Specifically, I was. impressed by the Scouts Rest Ranch in North Platte, and Fort Robinson at Crawford, which are under the jurisdiction of your department. In my opinion, the renovation of both of these installations is a fabulous thing for the people of this state, as well as for the tourist trade in general.

"Without the intervention of your department, such historical monuments such as these would pass into oblivion. I certainly hope that you can keep the historical tone of both of these locations and may I say, Thank you very much for your efforts.'"-Harry A. Koch, Jr., Omaha.

RIDE FOR LIFE

JACK FROST had left a hoary hand on the window panes that March morning, and a blanket of thick, flannel-gray fog boiled in to greet me when I opened the ranch house door. A ranch near Arthur was the location, and the date reaches back to March 12, 1931. Little did I know that in a matter of hours, nature would challenge my life.

It wasn't long before the gloomy fog was partially edged out by a cold drizzly rain. The rain fell all day, soaking the stock. That night it turned to snow, accompanied by a fierce wind. And the mercury dived.

Next morning the wind was howling around the drifts that were already half-way up the side of the house, yet the storm gave no signs of letting up. You couldn't see more than five feet as the snow swirled and blew. I knew my stock was in jeopardy as in any storm, but I could only hope for the best. It bothered me that the untimely blizzard had caught about 250 prize steers bunched up in a corner about a mile from the house.

The hired hands begged me not to go out in the blizzard, but I had to give the beeves a chance to live. If I rode up to the corner and cut the fence, the critters could drift with the storm. Saddling up Cut Throat, my sorrel horse, Lleft the ranch house about 10 a.m. Riding with the storm I could see about 15 feet ahead. I kept expecting the storm to let up, but instead, as I got farther away from the house, the hills flattened out and the blizzard became more intense. The clash of hooves on ice told me we had hit the lake. I followed its edge to the fence, and then followed the fence line to the corner.

It was too late to help the steers. I swallowed hard, trying not to believe what I saw. The freezing cattle were piled into the fence and trampling each other. They had pushed the fence over, and several lay dead in the snow. Spurring Cut Throat rapidly, I had to get out of the herd and get away. I couldn't bear seeing the steers fighting helplessly against the raging blizzard.

In getting away from the havoc of bawling, freezing cattle, I became confused. At first, I didn't think much about it. I went one way, then another. Finally, I started to panic. Forgetting about the cattle, I started to worry about my own life. The snow was cold and heavy, and at times I couldn't even see my mount's ears. Then suddenly Cut Throat haphazardly stumbled into a fence. I hoped my old steed had found the answer to saving our lives. Perhaps, if we followed the fence we eventually would come to a corral near the ranch house. Keeping Cut Throat tight to the barbed barrier, I put my foot on 8 NEBRASKAland the top strand of wire and we started hopefully homeward.

Post by post we crept along. Every time we came to two posts together, I knew we were at a gate. Keeping my horse next to the fence we moved at a snail's speed, but there was no other way.

I hated to ask any horse to follow the fence that close. The barbs were slashing his leg and shoulder, but I had no choice and I think Cut Throat understood. As I kept my foot on the wire my overshoe was ripped to shreds and my boot cut nearly through.

After edging along the fence for a couple of hours, Cut Throat and I were in bad shape and I didn't think we were going to make it, but I wasn't going to give up.

We came to another gate and were moving on when I jerked the reins and backed Cut Throat up a step or two. Squinting, I examined the gate as thoroughly as possible. I was sure that I recognized it as being directly below the ranch house. It was one heck of a gamble, but it seemed worth it to me. Cut Throat and I made a frenzied dash in the direction of where I hoped the house was. I was just ready to turn around and go back to the fence, thinking I was wrong, when the house loomed out of the smother, less than 10 feet away. A few feet either side would have meant missing it, and most likely kept me from ever telling this story.

It was 1 p.m. when I got into the house. It had taken me about three hours to travel less than three miles all told. Even though I didn't accomplish anything but nearly losing my life, ruining a new overshoe and a boot, and cutting up my horse, I had tried to help my cattle.

It snowed all day, that night, and didn't clear off until about nine the next morning. Cattle that had drifted with the storm were as far as 10 miles from the ranch. It was more than a week before we got them together. I'll never forget some of the horrible sights we saw. Some of the cattle were frozen in the lake, others frozen in their tracks, trapped between hills where drifts had them corralled.

It turned hot right after the blizzard and the snow melted real fast. I lost over 700 head of cattle and quite a few horses. It is my hope that never again will nature strike so hard, leaving such a macabre path of death and destruction. At least, I hope I never have to live through another blizzard like that, for I seriously doubt if I could be so lucky to ever make another "barbed-blizzard" ride.

NEBRASKAland HOSTESS of THE MONTH Shirley Waggoner

With Veteran's Day and America's tribute to its forefathers, Thanksgiving, just around the corner, the stars in Shirley Waggoner's eyes are more than just reflections from Old Glory's spangled field.

NEBRASKAland's November Hostess is a junior at the University of Nebraska where she is majoring in journalism and political science. Her membership in Young Democrats and work on the Cornhusker, the university's yearbook, enhance her formal studies.

The daughter of Loren D. Waggoner of Huntley, Nebraska, Shirley is the reigning Princess Athena, beauty queen of the Greek system. She was tapped by Theta Sigma Phi, a national woman's journalism honorary, last spring and is a member of Alpha Delta Pi social sorority.

NOVEMBER Roundup

NOVEMBER IN NEBRASKAland is a month of many moods. The land gains a new facade as fall's crimson colors mingle with a snow-white mantle of winter. Even the air seems to crackle with the excitement of life in a different setting.

Activities change, keeping in step with the accelerated pace. The blast of brass bands permeates the atmosphere as Nebraska's football cavalcade swings into the home stretch. The University of Nebraska gridders bang heads with Iowa State at Lincoln on November 4. The contest is Band Day for N.U., and sports fans will be treated to added pageantry as a sea of high school bandsmen keep time with their pulsating spirits.

The Cornhuskers' homecoming will highlight Lincoln's observance of November 11 when Nebraska tackles Oklahoma State. A week later, Coach Bob Devaney's crew journeys to Columbia, Missouri for a go-for-broke tilt against the University of Missouri. Then on November 25, the Big Red rounds out the season against Big Eight arch rival Oklahoma at Memorial Stadium.

Small-college footballers will be busy during November, too. Just a few of the hot spots will be Nebraska Wesleyan as it defends its turf against Concordia College November 10. Midland College will swing into action against Wayne State in Fremont on November 11. And Kearney State College will meet Northern State of Aberdeen, South Dakota the next day in Kearney.

Not all of the action is on the gridiron, however. The state is a swinging place throughout the month with something doing for everyone.

For those who would rather do than watch, the 79-day pheasant season dawns on November 4. Running through January 21, this year's season is expected to be a good one for the eager gunners. A new twist for the 1967-68 season is the lifting of the plugged-shotgun law. Hunters will be able to load up on Sunday and shoot all week under the new regulation. Nevertheless, the daily bag limit is still 4 roosters and hunters can not possess more than 16 after the first 4 days.

Special permits keeps wild turkey gunning somewhat limited in Nebraska, but those with the necessary tickets will get their chances at a hefty gobbler, No- vember 4 through 12. Shotgun regula- tions are the same for the big birds as for ringnecks, but shooters are limited to firearms ranging from 10 to 20-gauges.

Back on the spectator scene, Omaha's Civic Auditorium will be the site of rough-and-tumble action as grunt and groaners take to the canvas for an evening of action. A top card of contestants will be on hand and fans won't come away disappointed.

Also along the theatrics line, the University of Nebraska's Kosmet Klub, an honorary acting society, will stage its annual fall show, November 4. Always the highlight of the university's academic year, this show should rank at the top of everyone's list of things to do.

With NEBRASKAland hunting going full blast throughout the month, it seems only natural that the rocketing bobwhite should have his day. In fact, he will have 73 days before the quail season bows out along with the ringneck shooting on January 21, 1968.

Falls City area farmers will be the object of the town's salute on November 7 at the annual Farmer's-Merchant's Banquet. The event is Falls City's way of showing its appreciation for the farming residents. Now over a decade old, the affair will be kicked off with townspeople presenting tickets to the farmers, entitling them to take part in the sit-down banquet. The plaque for outstanding farmer is a big moment of the evening, and a special speaker, as yet unknown, caps the festivities.

Fitting right into the full-tilt pace for November is Omaha's Midwest Hobbyrama, slated for November 10 through 12. It will show visitors how others keep themselves busy. Billed as the "Worlds' Fair of Hobbies", the show features a thousand different exhibits, ranging from stamp collections to pigeons. And anyone in the mood for that different knickknack can put in an order with a (Continued on page 50)

WHAT TO DO

THE LEANING TREES OF NEBRASKA

LEANING TREES can bridge you across a creek or into the world of science fiction if you speculate on them for a bit. There is a lot known about trees, but very little on why they lean. Still, there are some wild and weird theories. One of the most far-fetched —you might call it the cosmic theory —is that rotation speed of the earth, a thousand miles an hour, creates such centrifugal force that it makes trees lean out from center.

A corollary theory points out that the slope of the earth's surface downward from equatorial belt makes the trees in the southern hemisphere lean south and those in the northern hemisphere lean north. One wit also came up with the idea that when trees lean north they may be ironwood and are attracted by the magnetic North Pole.

In the realm of fancy, too, is the contraction and expansion theory that applies to the south versus the north sides of trees. The sun always shines on the south side, so that side expands while the shady side contracts. Where there is more molecular contraction there is more weight — therefore the tree will lean to the heavy or north side.

More practical, but still unique is the theory that some trees lean because the Indians tied them down when saplings to mark their trails. Other tree-leaning theorists claim that browsing cattle are responsible for leaning trees because they loosen them while grazing. Others say that in the old days buffalo scratched their backs on trees and wore them off on one side. Some claim that buck deer severely damage trees when rubbing the velvet off their antlers. It is true that the human-engineered wild beast —the bulldozer — when cutting a road, shears off roots on one side of a row of trees, making the trees off balance so they lean away from the road. A possibly true theory claims that trees grow more in the summer and tend to grow away from the prevailing wind, so they incline in the opposite direction.

However wild the theories may be about leaning trees, there are many such in Nebraska. You can see them all along the roads and in the fields. One outstanding example is the elms along U.S. Highway 6 from Fairmont to Hastings. These trees lean toward the northeast, obeying the force of the prevailing southerly winds of the growing season. Their lean is very noticeable and attracts considerable attention. There is a possibility that there is a wind shift or variant in this locality that makes the elms so individualistic. Trees lean over to form an arcade over creek beds, too. A notable example of this tendency is in Streeter's Park at Aurora, where trees lean over a wandering creek bed.

With trees as with people, leaning becomes a habit and once started there is no stopping it. Some trees go as far as to squat. Others even lie down on the job. There is a redbud in south Lincoln that grows about three feet off the ground. When it blooms, it looks like a lavender-pink blanket tossed on a lawn. It had been planted too near a residence and had to grow away from the wall to get light.

Besides the leaners, some trees spray out in several directions like a fan. A few even go so far as to "do the twist". Twisting and leaning are caused in many cases by root development, heredity, unnatural environmental stress, unbalanced 12 NEBRASKAland growth material and peculiarities, virus diseases, hurricane wind, and other influences.

In the sense of bending, leaning in trees is not only decorative, graceful, voluntary, and involuntary, but also absolutely necessary to survival. A tree must bend or lean with every change of wind or it would shatter. Young trees bow so low in a storm that they bend double and even great old trees with stout trunks flatten tremendously in a gale.

Wind can and actually does shape trees so that they grow at an angle. Foresters at least agree on this: steady wind pressure from a certain direction can cause a lean in the trunk or a drag at the roots, and these will force the tree into a permanent lean. Willa Cather, in Death Comes to the Archbishop, described a grove of cottonwoods and how the winds shaped them. "Beside the river was a grove of tall, naked cottonwoods — trees of great antiquity and enormous size — so large that they seemed to belong to a bygone age. They grow far apart and their twisted shapes must have come about from the ceaseless winds that bent them to the east and scoured them with sand, and from the fact that they lived with very little water..."

You can talk to the experts on the leaning of trees, but you might as well talk to the wind for no one wants to be quoted. No forester seems to have written anything authoritative on the subject. Edwin A. Menninger in his Fantastic Trees does have a chapter on twisting, which seems about as close as a reader can come to the factual learning of leaning. But poets seem drawn to the subject.

Robert Frost, in his Birches, compares the wind to a boy, "When I see the birches bend to left and right/ Across the lines of straighter darker trees,/ I like to think some boy's been swinging them,/ But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay,/ Ice storms do that."

Then Frost tells how greatly the weight of the ice bears a tree down, and when the ice shatters off, he tells what effect it has had: "They are dragged...and they seem not to break; though once they are bowed/ so low for so long, they never right themselves:/ You may see their trunks arching in the woods/ Years afterward, trailing their leaves on the ground."

Trees along a stream or lake look as if they have a Narcissus-complex. They seem to be leaning over to see their own reflections in the water, but actually their roots have had to angle out into a bank as the water has eroded away more and more of the soil. When saplings are crowded, the competition for light makes them lean to get the maximum. This is often evident in a grove of trees which is dominated by one old patriarch. The young trees had to grow out at an angle to avoid the old one's shadow. A tree planted too close to a house or barn will lean out for more sun and rain.

Deeper and more nutritive soil has a similar effect. Tree seedlings springing up on rocky ledges or along bluffs grow in any direction that offers deeper soil for roots or betters their chances for rain and more sunlight. If a tree remains scraggy and stunted, it has had to make do with little water and shallow soil.

Shallow soil tends to encourage widespread surface rooting rather than deeper tap root penetration. When roots are near the surface, the tree can be permanently and easily bent by storm winds. Once knocked off home base, the tree often slants sidewise for life. Also if the layer of good soil is shallow, the tree cannot achieve normal strength and girth, but grows thin and spindly. In a nursery, young trees are propped for protection against the wind and cropped at the top to prevent leaning and crooked growth.

Trees can get big-headed or top heavy, and if they have slender trunks they are in trouble. The tops will throw them out of balance and pull them to one side. Overloaded fruit-bearing trees will develop side sags and often this alters their shapes, especially when they are young and not too solidly rooted.

Nature has a magnificent sense of balance with trees. On a hill or mountain side tree trunks will almost make a U-turn so the tree will grow straight. Roots and bole will thicken several inches on the weak side, as nature's reinforcement. Of course, nature doesn't have a perfect batting average or there would be no leaning trees.

For every tree that leans though, there are a thousand that are lifters, supporting many times their own weights. These lifters support treehouses, birds' nests, apples, peaches, and plums, along with birds, bees, blossoms, and squirrels. Sometimes the tallest trees seem to have trapped the sun, moon, and stars in their branches. Giant trees even appear to hold up the sky, and that alone is enough to make them lean.

BUCK BY THE BOOK

OLD MAN SUN was just beginning his day's work I and the air smelled fresh and clean that November morning. 1 took a deep breath that bolstered my confidence and made me feel just plain good all over as I scanned the surrounding area from my deer blind.

Suddenly I spotted a set of antlers moving into a clearing, 200 yards to my right. Those antlers were being pushed by a mighty fine white-tailed buck, and as soon as I saw him my heart beat doubled, threatening to shake me out of my roost. I kept a shaky eye on the handsome animal until he wandered into the shrubs and brush. I spotted him again as he hit the trail that led directly below my hideout. 1 nocked an arrow. The watchful creature walked down the trail, but he didn't look up.

Now, he was within 95 yards of me, and I was ready. My self-imposed limit with the bow is 25 yards, so I waited impatiently as he moved carefully down the run. At 55 yards, he stopped and looked up. His antlers glistened in the early morning sun as he munched on some tasty shrubbery and 1 saw that he was a good one. Again he proceeded toward me and I slowly positioned the bow ready to draw when the time came. Then the buck stopped. Had he spotted me or picked up my scent? What was wrong? The stag, now only a scant 45 yards away, turned majestically, and looked back. Beads of sweat gathered on my forehead despite the 35-degree weather. The buck turned, stepped off the trail, and pranced out of sight.

I exhaled a large breath, and gave a quiet sigh of disappointment. After crouching in my tree blind for nearly 45 minutes, a leg had gone to sleep, but I had never moved. Still the buck had danced away.

I have hunted the area near my home in Monroe, Nebraska most of my life, except for early childhood, two years of college, and three years in the U.S. Marine Corps. I like to hunt all small game*, but for the past several years big game has been my favorite. Usually I pack a .30/06 mounted with a 4X telescope. However, on this particular deer hunt I decided to go Indian style, and try to take a buck with a bow.

Early in the spring of 1966, I made up my mind to make a stab at the sport. Knowing scarcely anything about the techniques and methods of bow hunting, it was plain that I would have a lot to learn. The big thing was to practice shooting a bow until I became accurate enough to be capable of hunting big game.

My bow-hunting career started with reading everything available on the subject. There is a lot of information in print, and some usable data can be wrestled from almost every publication. A few old-time archers provided help on the types of bow, arrows, hunting methods, best hunting hours, and since I was about as inquisitive as Cicero's cat, I pumped them dry. As I was continually reading archery articles in magazines, it didn't take long for my friends to start riding me.

"Hey, Robin Hood," they would call out to me, along with various other terms. "Great white hunter, sahib, book worm, Chief Crazy Horse, and Fred Bear" were just a few of the many titles hung on me during my quest for archery information.

I have been hunting Nebraska deer and antelope with a rifle for several seasons and have seldom been stumped. The archery hunt seemed like a real challenge to me, and a 97-day hunt for $10 isn't too bad of a deal. Besides, if I chased around after deer during the archery season, I would really know where the bucks were when the rifle season rolled around. I was going to go ahead with the bow hunt no matter how thick the razzing.

After shopping around for quite some time, finally I bought a short hunter-model bow with a 50-pound pull, a few arrows, and all the other accessories. The little details of proper aiming and releasing came from my faithful books. Since the firm I work for has a lumberyard, this made an ideal practice spot. I cut silhouettes to what I felt were actual-size deer, and then shot at them from the yard's catwalks to familiarize myself with shooting from elevated hideouts and at various distances.

The lumberyard also provided me with indoor snooting, so I practiced a lot during the early spring when the weather wouldn't permit shooting outside. One thing though, I never shot at normal archery targets, but always at deer silhouettes. My books told me that this is the best way to practice for archery hunting.

The next step in my bow-hunt preparations was finding the best deer runs or trails. I spent a lot of weekends during the summer finding where deer traveled and studying their (Continued on page 54)

A SHOCKING EXPERIENCE

ABOUT A TON of equipment was gathered for our river excursion. It was a lot of gear for a fishing trip, but then this was no ordinary jaunt. We were going to devote two full days to fishing a lake connected with the Missouri River at Blackbird Bend, located about five miles north of Decatur, Nebraska. At the end of our hook-and-line efforts, an electrical shocking rig would be used to remove most of the fish. Thus, we would be able to compare our angling successes with the total fish population.

The shocking rig is a large generator connected to three electrodes suspended in the water. The electric current knocks the fish out, enabling boatmen to scoop them up. They are stunned only momentarily, and can later be returned to the water with little more than a headache.

Most fishermen never know how many or what fish are lurking in their favorite fishing holes. After many years of plunking bait into the same waters they have a pretty good idea, but seldom is it a certainty. A new pond, freshly stocked, is predictable, but only for its first season. After that, fish numbers can zoom off in any direction.

This was the purpose of our mid-August experiment. To land as many fish as possible on all types of bait and lures to see what percentage of the total we actually did catch, and to find out what fish lived in the lake. Each fish we caught was fin clipped so we could identify him if he was caught again or taken during the subsequent shocking that was planned for the second day.

Eight fishermen made up our party. Dick Elston, a conservation officer from Tekamah, Leon Luxa, a state highway patrolman from Blair, Wayne Steinbau, who operates a boat shop in Blair, and Ed Thompson of the Blair post office. Larry Morris, fisheries biologist from Lincoln, headed the technical operations. His assistants were Lanny Icenogle and Delmar Holz, both of Lincoln. Larry and Delmar are University of Nebraska students who were working for the summer. I am an associate editor in the special publications department of the Nebraska Game Commission's Information and Tourism Division. Mike Layman, NEBRASKAland photographer, rounded out our crew. Mike didn't fish, and my only contribution was encouragement.

Our excursion started out auspiciously. The weather was perfect, warm and sunny with hardly a breeze. We left Lincoln in the wee hours of the morning with two boats, motors, rubber boots, fishing tackle, and the boom, cable, tubs, and nets needed for the shocking.

At Decatur we rigged the boats in the harbor ol the Decatur Boat Club and started upriver. Boating on the Missouri River is an interesting event in itself. Huge circular slicks, logs, and a tricky current make navigation interesting. When a loaded barge passes, it stirs the water for several miles behind, but we met only one during the two days. The first trip upriver was scenic but uneventful as we outboarded toward our preselected pond.

After a brief struggle with driftwood at the entrance to our lagoon and a needed push by Larry who donned hip waders to make like a Volga boatman, we moved onto the pond. Here the extra gear was removed from the big boat to make room for some serious fishing. Bait containers were uncovered and jug lines put out. We used minnows, frogs, crayfish, and worms, and all of them paid off.

The pond-like lake was approximately 125 yards long and 30 yards wide with the ends closed off by pilings supported by rocks. Similar ponds were on either side of the pilings. The two long sides of the lake were inaccessible because of heavy brush and trees. Casting would be done from pilings and boats.

It was not an ideal time to catch fish in a river lake. Local anglers, familiar with the lake, said it was highly productive in the spring, but relatively quiet during the summer months. Even so, our group gave it a good workout and landed a fairly impressive number of fish.

Considerable man-hours were devoted to the project. Jugs were baited regularly with minnows, frogs, crawdads, and worms, watched intently, and redistributed when blown out of position.

All eight of us selected our favorite lures and began casting. We used a variety of plugs, spinners, jigs, plastic worms, imitation (Continued on page 50)

GRANDPA RIDES AGAIN

THEY MOVED up the trail in heavy stagecoaches and long bull trains in a great frenzy to reach the Black Hills and their gold. Soon, the Sidney-Deadwood Trail became a great western highway. But when the gold fever subsided and the railroads came, the 270-mile trail gave way to progress. Its once deep ruts were hidden by the concealing grass, while barbed wire, telephone poles, and black-top highways marred its once uncluttered stretch. From the trail's harsh past grew legend, a legend of glamour and adventure.

Last August, as part of Nebraska's Centennial observance, a group from the Sidney Chamber of Commerce decided to re-enact the old-time journey, and so to stagecoach driver Bob Soester and his passengers, the forgotten reality of the past became an experience of today. Once again, the Sidney-Deadwood Trail heard the creaking of wagon wheels and the pound of hooves. The calendar read 1967, but imagination flipped its pages back to 1876 when travel along the trail was in its peak.

To the tall, lanky team handler who ranches near Marshland, the journey into the past started with a flip of the reins in Hot Springs, South Dakota and ended with a final whoa in Sidney, Nebraska, nearly 200 miles away. By car it is a four-hour haul, but by stagecoach it meant a 50-hour trek across the rugged Pine Ridge, through the treeless Sand Hills, into the lush North Platte Valley, and then onto the hot prairie of the southwestern Nebraska. I went along to see what stagecoaching was like and to report on the experience for NEBRASKAland. Before it was over, I was convinced that it called for devotion above and beyond the normal duties of an associate editor.

. Gusty winds carried the jingle-bell clatter of harness chains as the yellow-wheeled coach creaked through the sleeping streets of Hot Springs to start its long trek. Bob hosted new passengers each day and in the imaginations of all, black-top highways and graveled backroads became deep wagon ruts, the picture-taking tourists, light-hearted prospectors, and the friendly honk of a passing qar, the distant bugle of a military encampment.

But to Bob, the scurry of today's world posed problems. Honking cars startled his team, the black-top highways were hard on the horses, and stones on graveled roads lamed them. Worse yet, the watering holes of old are fenced in. Bob was perfectly cast for his role as stage driver. He talks in short sentences, not wasting a single word, and those words roll gently from his thin lips. He respects his horses, and they respect him. This modern-day stagecoacher was born 100 years too late, and the old Gilmer and Salisbury stage lines can be sorry about that.

Each passenger was eager to start the trip, but by sundown the now tired and bedraggled riders were more than anxious to end it. Most were seeking an answer to the question: "What was it like to ride a stage?" The answer came in sore backs, parched lips, and wide yawns. "It was fun," they said. "But even if I had a free ticket, I won't ride tomorrow. Ask me again in about five years."

Few of us realized the trip would be so rough, and at first looked on the trek as similar to a Sunday outing in the family car. When Grandpa boarded a stage in 1876, it was like riding a bus today. To him the coach was an expedient way to cover the long miles ahead. He may have felt discomforts on the long journey, but there was little reason to complain, because he had no 22 NEBRASKAland better way to travel. Grandpa saw little reason to complain about a mouth full of dust, a splitting headache caused by a hot prairie sun, and a bouncing coach. He didn't write letters to the management or record his experiences for posterity, so for lack of better information we believed the movie version of stagecoach travel.

As stages go, we were riding in an exact replica of the Rolls Royce of the cowboy era, the great Concord coach. By the end of the first day I had another name for it, "Old Sore Seat". Used at Fort Robinson for rides around the grounds, the stage has logged a lot of miles in its three years at the fort. Merle Kilgore, part-owner of the coach, knew the stage would hold up on the endurance run, but questioned my fitness.

To the greenhorn stagecoachers the nickname, Old Sore Seat, sounded cruel, but after a long day's ride everyone had enough evidence to back up my repugnant title. When Grandpa headed West in 1876, a plump behind was a major asset for an extended stay aboard a bouncing stage and its thinly padded seats. Things haven't changed much in 91 years. After miles on the trail, the well-rounded patrons were the only ones who found comfort in sitting down for meals. I sat down my first day, but preferred to stand the next. Without the foresight of bringing a pillow, jackets that could be made into pillows were at a premium.

In the gold-rush days, the wayfarer could either ride second class on top of the coach, or spend $10 more to ride inside, first class. The extra money put a roof over his head, but didn't assure him of added comfort. To a long-legged cowboy like myself, the inside of a stage was designed for Lilliputians. The seats are low and when the coach is full, leg room is sparse. Stretching my legs was to infringe on someone's paid-for territory, an act considered worse than claim jumping. So, to keep my legs at home I put my chin on my knees. A happy medium, I found, was to prop one foot on the door frame. It gave me a chance to stretch a numb leg, offered body support, and kept me from bouncing out.

For $10 less, the old trekker had the opportunity to break his neck in an eight-foot fall from the top of the coach. Included at no extra charge was the chance to know the sting of a howling blizzard in the winter and the pelt of hail stones in (Continued on page 55)

MILESTONE IN PARKS

BY THE YEAR 2000, Americans will be gobbling up land, water, and air at a prodigious rate. At the same time, they will be demanding more and more "open" space — space where they can renew their spiritual and physical selves from the basic greatness of the earth itself. These two conflicting demands are on a collision course and the only preventative is the acquisition, preservation, and development of outdoor-recreation sites. To avoid this impending impasse between the two demands, the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission is purchasing land which has high outdoor-recreation potential and developing it for future use.

The Commission's largest purchase is the George James Ranch, a 10,300-acre tract in the Pine Ridge country of northwestern Nebraska. In time, this will become part of the Fort Robinson State Park complex, which will be one of the largest and most spectactular state parks in the nation. The James tract lies between and connects the Fort Robinson Military Reservation and its Wood Reserve. All three areas will be incorporated in the new park.

A third-generation holding, the James Ranch lies in Sioux and Dawes counties and is drained by Soldier and Spring creeks. Picturesque Smiley Canyon is along its southern edge. The ranch has typical Pine Ridge topography with ridges, pine, canyons, and valley meadows. It lies north of relocated U.S. Highway 20.

Full-scale development as a park will begin in 1970, when the tenure of the former owner expires and the federal lands become available. The ranch and the surrounding areas come as close to reflecting the public's image of the West as any spot in the nation, while NOVEMBER, 1967 25   still providing ideal family recreation. Unlike most parks, it will be developed on a people-participation concept —a park where people can do as well as see things.

A place of "little" mountains, this new addition to Nebraska's state-park lands is high country, but not lung-searingly high. The air is clean and sparkling with the tang of the pines in it, but it is not so headachy thin that every step is an effort. The days of spring, summer, and early autumn are pleasantly warm, the nights cool and blanket comfortable.

A family, from smallest toddler to grandpa, can explore the area by car, on horseback, or on foot without risking exhaustion. The area can be seen in a day or explored in a week. It is remote without being isolated, isolated without being impenetrable. It is an area vast enough to be impressive, but not so huge that it cannot be comprehended. Buttes and pinnacles, the trademarks of the West, can be approached for close-range inspection, many can be climbed, and all of them can be photographed without elaborate or expensive equipment. Some of these sentinels of the West offer superb views of the surrounding country and will be developed as overlooks.

There are creeks in the park complex with brown and rainbow trout in them. But these are not the   brawling, foam-white streams that are often associated with western trout fishing. The streams in the new complex are good producers and relatively easy to fish.

Soldier Creek which bisects the James Ranch is one of the better trout streams in Nebraska. It is an enchanting waterway and easy of access. Kids, women, and casual anglers will find it to their liking, while the serious trouter will find it challenging enough to satisfy his ego. In time, extensive watershed projects will provide much warm-water fishing for those who prefer this type of angling.

This new park to-be offers some of the finest deer hunting in the nation. Whitetails frequent the timbered stream courses and the valleys while big mule deer lurk in the rugged hills and breaks of the higher elevations. Big-game hunting here is not the time-consuming, expensive packing-in proposition that it is in many other localities. There is scarcely an inch in the Ridge that cannot be traveled by four-wheel-drive vehicle. In many places, a conventional car is adequate. Wild-turkey hunting here is probably the best in NEBRASKAland.

Although the park will be family-participation oriented, individualistic activities like golfing, skiing, tennis, riding, swimming, and sight-seeing will not be slighted. Adequate provisions for all of these pleasures are in the plans.

Historical atmosphere is an asset to any park, and Fort Robinson State Park to-be has plenty of pioneer history to complement its truly ancient history — prehistoric history. Many of the famous and infamous of the Old West passed this way. Crazy Horse, an Oglala Sioux Chief, who played an important role in the Custer massacre at the Little Big Horn, was killed at Fort Robinson. Confined at the post, he was killed by a guard wdien the fiery chieftain threatened one of his captors. Dull Knife, powerful leader of the Cheyenne, staged his famous break when he and others of his tribe, mostly women and children, were imprisoned at the former military post. Some of his followers hid out in the canyons and breaks of the James Ranch on their mid-winter flight from the troopers. Canyons and buttes in the area with historical significance will be marked for the benefit of visitors.

The stamp of white heroes is on this land, too. Brigadier General George Crook, long-time commander of the Department of the Platte, organized two campaigns at the old fort. Major Frank and Captain Luther North, organizers and leaders of the Pawnee Scouts, were familiar figures at the post during the winter campaigns of 1876. They served under Colonel Ranald Mackenzie, commander of the Fourth Cavalry. General Phil Sheridan, the dashing horseman of Civil War greatness, knew the Fort Robinson country well. Walter Reed, conqueror of yellow fever, was a post surgeon at Fort Robinson before he went on to the tropics.

There were others, too, who did not write such glowing pages in the history book. Outlaws and mavericks of the Old West who were on the left of the law hid out in the rugged country when things got too hot. The gentleman horse thief, "Doc" Middleton, reportedly had a hideout in the Pine Ridge and possibly stashed some of his stock-in-trade in the back-country canyons that slash the James Ranch.

Just a few miles south and west of Fort Robinson is the Agate Springs Fossil Quarries, now being de- veloped by the federal government. This is one of the greatest fossil deposits in the world, but there are fossils and artifacts to be found on the state lands, too. In time, museums and exhibit centers will be built to tell vacationers of Nebraska's dim past.

There is much to be done before the new Fort Robinson State Park is completed. It will take men, money, and time, but it will one day be a reality, thanks to the vision and perseverance of M. O. Steen, director of the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission. Because of this vision and perseverance, the year 2000 will see a great park of which all Nebraskans can be proud and one that will bring a new and thriving economy to the Pine Ridge country. The purchase of the James Ranch, the key tract in the Fort Robinson State Park plan, is a most significant milestone in the outdoor-recreation history of our state.

HOW TO MAKE JERKY

NO MATTER HOW you chew it, jerky is different. Clamp your jaws on a strip of the stuff, and you think youVe latched on to a strip of old, stiff, leather boot, previously water-soaked and dried out again. Keep chewing, and your opinion changes. A spicy tang tumbles over your taste buds. Like the man in the potato chip advertisement, you find it impossible to stop with one bite. There are those who claim that jerky, served with a favorite beverage, is habit forming. Occasionally an addict is cured when he discovers the tidbit is raw, dried flesh. More likely, he closes his mind to the repulsive thought and goes on enjoying jerky for the rest of his life.

I was introduced to jerky by an older brother, who in his youth punched cattle in a southwestern state. He brought back a glowing tale of how they would butcher a beef on the range and hang the strips of meat on a barbed-wire fence to dry in the sun and wind. Plenty of black pepper kept the blowflies off the food. It sounded romatic to a 13-year-old farm boy, so the next time dad butchered, I strapped out a 2-pound chuck of fresh beef. Since no barbed-wire fence was handy, I simply nailed the meat to the side of the house. The few ounces of dried meat were carefully horded, shared with no one, and I retained my romantic ideas of jerky long after the last morsel of that first low-quality product was gone.

Properly made, jerky has a long shelf life, and it will keep indefinitely in the freezer. It's nutritional value is very high. You can hike all day on four ounces of jerky and a half gallon of water. While hunting or fishing, two or three strips carried in your shirt pocket provide a quick lunch. At home, it can be served as an appetizer.

Even among experts, there's much difference of opinion as to how jerky should be made. Some insist it must never be smoked. Others prefer the added flavor. Some use no salt in the preparation, to the disgust of those who do. Other disagreements arise whenever two or more jerky enthusiasts get together. I have concluded there is no single "right" way. It boils down to individual preference of the final texture and flavor.

Domestic beef and the flesh of most big-game animals such as deer, antelope, elk, and moose can be jerked. The cut of meat is relatively immaterial, since jerky made from the shank tastes as good as that from the tenderloin. However, when using any of the less desirable parts of the carcass, any muscle sheaths and membrane left in the product makes complete mastication impossible. Peel these sheaths and membranes away, and discard them. Remove all fat. It causes messy drippage while the meat is drying, and any globules left turn rancid and spoil jerky that is stored for any length of time.

Next, "strap out" the meat. The classic method is to pull the flesh apart, muscle by muscle, along the grain of the meat. Straps about 1/2-inch thick, 2 or 3 inches wide, and a foot long work up into the best chewables. Use a sharp knife to help you through the tough spots. If you are no stickler for convention, use the knife all the way, slicing the meat into straps the long way of the grain. This produces uniform pieces, which require less attention during later dehydration.

You can make jerky from meat that has been sliced across the grain, as you would carve a roast, but it is a crumbly, insipid substance without character or chewability.

Lay the cut straps on a clean, solid surface, and sprinkle them liberally with store-bought seasoned salt. If you want a smoky flavor, mix in some smoked salt. Over the salt, sprinkle seasoned pepper. The exact amount of seasoning depends on your own taste, and experimenting with different amounts is your only guide. As a rule, the drying process weakens the strength somewhat, so use a little more than you think you need.

Pound the seasoning into the meat with a steak mallet, the edge of a saucer, or an old brick, but pound lightly. Just enough to set the condiments into the surface. Excessive pounding breaks down the meat fibers, and poor jerky results. Remember, there is no such thing as "tender" jerky anyway.

For a small batch, which your first attempts should be until you acquire the knack, dry the meat in the oven of your kitchen range. Spread the straps over one of the wire shelves, and put a foil pan under it to catch any drips. Set the oven temperature at 120°, 34 NEBRASKAland leave the door ajar, and forget it for 4 or 5 hours. Turn the straps, and leave them three or four hours longer. The meat will shrivel and turn almost black. When done, the strips will reveal no central moisture when forcibly broken, but they should be pliable enough to bend without snapping. Venison, due to its natural texture, will be more brittle than beef. One warning, the strips pick up a bit of brittleness as they cool, but that doesn't spoil their flavor.

Don't try to hurry the drying process by turning up the heat. The meat will cook as it dries and be spoiled.

For large batches, you can make jerky in an outdoor dehydrator made from an old, junked refrigerator. Place a single-burner electric hot plate in the bottom of the box, and hang the strapped meat from hooks in the top of the refrigerator. The lower ends of the straps must be far enough from the heating element to keep them from cooking. All during the drying, leave the door open a crack to allow the warm, moisture-laden air to escape and to prevent too much heat buildup.

If you want to add a special smoky wallop, it's easy with this rig. Throw two or three handfuls of barbecue hickory wood chips into an old iron skillet, dampen the chips well with water, and set the skillet on the hot plate for the first half of the dehydration time.

The outdoor dehydrator has two disadvantages — kids and pets. Both are prone to raid the machine at any stage of the game, and you end up short. The fact that it takes approximately five pounds of fresh meat to make one pound of jerky is bad enough without losing any along the way.

These dudish ways of making jerky are a far cry from a barbed-wire fence or the side of a house, but be comforted. If you don't lose your fillings on the first bite and find yourself going for a second, you're hooked for life.

Nebraska's World Fair

THEY CALLED THEM the "Gay Nineties". But there was little gaiety in America's heartland as clouds of economic doom settled across the region. Immigration was at a standstill and drought-caused crop failures spelled chaos for Nebraska and her neighbors. Spirits were at low ebb, yet the mid-country found the answer-the Trans-Mississippi and International Exposition of 1898.

Held in Omaha, this extravaganza was born on November 25, 1895. In an Omaha Daily Bee editorial, Editor Edward Rosewater called for the fair as an answer to Nebraska's financial problems. When the Trans-Mississippi Congress convened in Omaha early the following year, its president, William Jennings Bryan, took up the battle cry.

"Whereas, we believe that an exposition of all the products, industries, and civilizations of the states west of the Mississippi River, made at some central gateway, where the world can behold the capabilities of those great wealth-producing states, would be of great value... therefore,

"Resolve that the United States Congress be requested to take such steps as may be necessary to hold a Trans-Mississippi Exposition at Omaha..."

But Congress moved slowly in the late 19th Century, and it wasn't until June 15, 1896, that the U.S. Senate appropriated $200,000 for the project. Nebraska put up another $100,000 and Douglas County matched it. In June, 1898, almost as an afterthought, the Senate found another $40,000 for an Indian encampment. Railroad and business donations and the sale of a half-million dollars in stock financed the remainder of the venture.

So, in the midst of a depression that had virtually put an economic end to the western states, they began to sink almost all the region's 37   free cash into a fair, hoping to raise spirits and perhaps spark some economic confidence in the area.

There was nothing small about the exposition. It covered 184 acres within Omaha's city limits. Eleven major buildings and several smaller ones held 4,062 displays from 40 states and 10 foreign nations. Expenditures for the buildings totaled nearly $600,000, excluding architects' fees, office expense, and salaries, and maintenance. For a task of this size, the labor force was tremendous.

An army of 5,000 workmen descended on what is now Omaha's Near Northside like a swarm of locusts. Working almost 'round the clock, they transformed 16th to 24th streets and Izzard to Ames avenues into a Paris of the Plains —all out of plaster of paris. Then they seeded more than 700,000 square feet of ground, laid 14,600 square yards of sod, and landscaped the area with over 112,000 flowers, trees, and shrubs. As an added attraction they flooded the Grand Court, the fair's main thoroughfare, creating a placid lagoon. It took 13 months to build the most elaborate fair grounds Nebraska has ever known. And when the exposition began on June 1, 1898, its splendor was unmatched.

Towering spires and gilded domes rose above fields where a few months earlier corn had been king. In the Grand Court, gondoliers threaded their craft among floating swans on a Venetian-like canal. At one end, an electric fountain spewed vari-colored water jets 100 feet in the air from the middle of a three-lobed lake called the "Mirror". With a beauty most Nebraskans had never seen before, the exposition was well worth the less than 50-cent admission charge.

Special trains were scheduled to take visitors to the fair from throughout the Trans-Mississippi region. Those close enough traveled by wagon, horse, and some even walked. But the trip was worth the trouble.

Architecture ranged from Gothic to Ionic throughout the grounds. The white structures created a Never-Never Land of unparalleled grandeur. From the capitol-inspired Federal Government Building to the East Indian-style Palace of Fine Arts, the visitor was whisked on a non-stop world tour.

For most of the fair's total 2,613,508 visitors, a tour of the exposition began at the Federal Government Building which dominated the west end of the Grand Court. The building's expansive front and crested dome made it almost an exact replica of the nation's capitol. Atop the dome, "Liberty Enlightening the World" held her torch to gaze down on the splendor of the Grand Court and the Mirror.

From the Government building, Ionic columns stretched north and south, ending in the Palace of Agriculture and the Palace of Fine Arts. The Palace of Agriculture was decorated with casts of corn, wheat, and market products, while the Fine Arts building could easily have been the home of an Indian Maharaja.

Directly behind the Palace of Agriculture stood the Administration Arch. Its spires looking like a miniature Notre Dame, the arch was the seat of officialdom at the fair. Opposite it and behind the Palace of Fine Arts was the Arch of States. Closely resembling the Arc de Triumph in Paris, the Arch of States bore the name of each state in the Union on a frieze near its crest. Topping the arch were four American Flags.

The rest of the buildings followed the lagoon in the Grand Court as it made its way east. Next to the Palace of Agriculture, a warrior statue atop the Palace of Manufacturing snarled down at the world. Decked with multiple flags and pennants, the building could easily have been associated with old England's Parliament Building as it stood amid ermine-color statuary. And it might have been the British lion that roared from the top of the Mechanical and Electrical Building just east of the Palace of Manufacturing. Along the walkway between the two buildings, statues of maidens watched over the peaceful lagoon and the buildings across the way.

Skirting the opposite side of the lagoon, the Liberal Arts Building stood next to the Palace of Fine Arts. Plainer than most, Liberal Arts was still a masterpiece of masonry and craftsmanship. The Palace of Mines and Mining came next, with sweeping stairs leading to the water's edge from its massive entrance.

But the Trans-Mississippi Exposition was more than just buildings to the people who visited it. It was an adventure into the exotic. It was displays of the latest advancements in every field. And it was a chance to explore the unknown. For a dime additional, visitors could browse through the exhibits to their hearts' content.

One of the highlights of the exposition was the electrical display. Electric lights were a new thing then, and though they were used extensively throughout the Grand Court, the display was almost black magic to those who visited it. The exposition was scheduled to close on October 1, 1898, but the rush of visitors was so great that the governing board decided to keep it running another month. Since none of the buildings were equipped with heating facilities, the electrical exhibit was crammed with spectators warming their hands over the bulbs by late October.

The Senate's afterthought, the Indian encampment was an instant crowd-pleaser. Braves from 26 tribes throughout the country made the trek to Omaha for the event. Among them were such notables as Geronimo, American Horse, and White Swan, the last survivor of the Custer Massacre of 1876. Each tribe displayed its way of life for the visitors and with the exception of the Tonkawas, all were free to live as they had for centuries. The Tonkawas were the only cannibals in North America.

Dancing and feasting were constantly in progress in the camp. And much to the chagrin of many spectators, dog was the top fare. On one particular occasion, toward the end of the exposition, all of the warriors who had taken scalps were invited to a dog feast. After they had eaten, all others were invited to try the fat cur they had enjoyed. Very few whites joined the feast.

July 4, 1898 was a day that will long live for those who attended the exposition. Throughout the day, speeches, parades, and throngs of people filled the grounds. By 10 o'clock, the complex was filled to capacity and the festivities began. First was the parade of All Nations. Dozens of bands, thousands of flags, and marchers in their native garbs wound through the grounds. Even the concession stands were decorated with multi-colored bunting.

In the afternoon, a program of music was interrupted with the news that General Shatter had sent an ultimatum of unconditional surrender to the Spanish at Santiago. And later news of victory over the Spanish fleet in the Philippines sent the crowd into a frenzy. All through the night fireworks blazed over the exposition. The crowning event of the day was a sea battle recreated in fire. An American ship was shown sinking a Spanish warship!

A bit more refined and certainly a pleasure for the ladies was the Flower Day Parade of August 5. Featuring 50 of Omaha's (Continued on page 53)

COPPERHEAD

A "SNAKE IN THE grass" may be one of any number of species, but a snake under a moist, rotten log may very well be a Agkistrodon Contortrix mokesom. To be less scientific, a northern copperhead. Although this reptile shares the same generic name as the aquatic cottonmouth or water moccasin, his preference for upland, moist habitat brings about the descriptive "highland moccasin" name.

Copperheads belong to the pit viper family and can readily be identified by a pit on each side of the head, a little below a line drawn from the eye to the nostril. This pit serves as a sensory organ that aids the snake in aiming and striking at warm-blooded prey. Any snake with these pits is poisonous, but being close enough to see the pit on a live snake means being too close. Other identifications include a single row of scales on the underside near the tail, a head that is distinctly wider than the neck, and pupils that are vertically elliptical.

This reptile is one of the best known of the venomous snakes in the eastern United States. This is due partly because he is venomous and partly because his coloration is quite distinctive. These snakes prefer quiet, inactive lives and will usually beat a hasty retreat if disturbed. If cornered, they may strike violently and vibrate their tails against a leaf, other vegetation, or even against the ground. They are especially gregarious during the autumn when they congregate in 42 NEBRASKAland denning areas, often in the company of other snakes of different species.

Several species of harmless snakes are often confused with the copperhead. Among these are the milk snake, hog-nose snake, and the common water snake. Non-poisonous water snakes are quite often dubbed water moccasins by the uninformed.

Three species of copperheads are known from Texas northeastward to Massachusetts. They are the northern, the southern, and the broad-banded. Northerns range from eastern Kansas, eastern Oklahoma, and northeast Texas, eastward through the Ozark states to Massachusetts. The southern variety reaches only as far north as southern Missouri, but inhabits all the southern coastal states from eastern Texas to Virginia. Broad-bandeds have a more restricted range, extending from central Oklahoma south through most of Texas.

Southern copperheads inhabit lowland areas near cypress-bordered swamps and streams, but they may also be found at higher elevations. Northern copperheads are more common on rocky, wooded hillsides. They depend on such areas as rotting sawdust piles for food, shelter, and moisture.

Of the three, only the northern is likely to be found in Nebraska and then only in the extreme southeastern corner. This species is characteristically chestnut colored with a coppery-red head. Coloring renders them quite inconspicuous. Viewed from above, the dark chestnut hour-glass patterns are wide on the sides and narrow near the center of the back. Although the species record for length is 53 inches, copperheads here are most likely to be in the 24 to 36-inch range.

The young are produced alive. Brood sizes average no more than 6, with 10 maximum. At birth, the young are similarly marked as the adult except for yellow tips on the tails.

Copperhead diets consist mainly of mice, but small birds and insects are also eaten.

Deaths from copperhead bites are rare, but the snake is dangerous. His venom in man produces a painful case of snake bite with much discoloration of flesh and skin. People who enjoy hiking or camping in areas where copperheads or other poisonous snakes are found should wear high-topped boots as protection against them. Leather gloves with cuffs of sufficient length to protect the wrists are also recommended. Since the wooded country of their range is dominated by hardwoods that shed each year, copperheads often hide under dead leaves and are hard to see.

Although most snakes encountered are harmless, even beneficial, it is always best to avoid them all until positive identification can be made. The best medicine against snake bite is a large dose of precaution. In copperhead country, it's a good idea to double it.

Nee-shew-da-RIVER GIRL

STILL PROUD AS the moccasined Red Men who once trod her bluffs and valleys in search of game, the Omaha Indian Reservation at Macy today cautions the intruder, "Honor my people and lands lest you slight my majesty."

In spirit and feature the reservation can be compared to an Indian maiden. A quiet, olive-skinned beauty, she might fittingly be named Nee-shew-da, River Girl. This feminine mirage rests on the west bank of the Missouri River about 70 miles north of Omaha on U.S. Highway 73.

Nee-shew-da tossed her head and the cascade of dark tresses created the bountiful Missouri bottomlands. Her black curls are the scalloped banks of the surging river and the waves in her hair are the rippling variegations between croplands and woods.

The Omahas have thinned her sylvan thatch, taming the wild stands of oak and cottonwood with a comb of corn and milo. Here, lush acres of heavy topsoil and gumbo yield luxuriant harvests. The Indians now make use of modern implements and latest technologies in managing their cooperative tribal farm.

The image of Nee-shew-da, a natural enchantress, is carried out in geographic form. Her tawny arms, extending north and south, are bluffs paralleling the river. The two mounds of her crooked right elbow form the lookout peaks, Holy Fire Place and Council Point.

Holy Fire Place is the higher of the two lookouts and is revered as a religious sanctuary. Here, the past keeps tabs on the present for this highland is the spot where young braves once endured a four-day, four-night ordeal to prove their valor. The scene from here is a changing sight and soundscape with the evolving seasons. Fall brings the splatter of gaudy color upon the canvas of the outdoors while crickets strike their sudden downbeats in rasping, scraping tones. Their chorus is the overture for the delicate pen and ink sketches of winter and the quiet whisper of the descending snows. Pastel colors and vibrant chirps of the songbirds herald the spring while the frescoes of summer are the rustling mystery of growing corn and the bold greens and blues of land and sky.

Council Point, lower on the same bluff, is at the crest of a steep slope and is reached by an incline of heavy undergrowth that beckons the spectator along a visual pleasure path. In the distance, its ceaseless movements almost indiscernible, the river swirls and flows. This is a spot where nature and her minions hold unfettered reign. A black-and-white flutter in the near distance is a red-headed woodpecker flittering by. That flame of sumac on the oak-covered hillside is the torch that lures him on. Closer at hand, the wild and hidden orchestra of small things tune up with gutteral squawks, high-pitched squeaks, and staccato duckings. This is a spot where cream and daffodil-colored butterflies play summer flirtation with the wild flowers.

Southward, the bared right shoulder of this beguiling lady rises above a quiet river pool. This sleepy inlet, buttressed with perpendicular stone and hemmed with reeds, is a torment of enticement for the summer visitor. The invitation to swim in its cooling depths is almost too compelling to resist. Its shoreline creeps toward a wooded area where tall spindly cottonwoods reach high before donning their crowns of branch and leaf. The stone bluffs extend behind this woodland and where a fault has interrupted their even wall, a diagonal crevice forms the region's namesake — Hole in the Rock.

Crowning Nee-shew-da's brow is the Omaha Tribal Recreation Area or Chief Big Elk Park. This diadem is marsh, studded with velvet brown cattail and Blackeyed Susans. The rustic picnic tables and other facilities erected by the Army Corps of Engineers are well blended with the scenic beauty of the park. Those who tire of the landed beauty will find a cement boat ramp for river cruising. A ceremonial amphitheater, guarded by five gnarled oaks, is backed by a low bluff.

Black Bird Hill forms the maiden's left shoulder. Legend records that when the Omaha Chief, Black Bird, died he was tied to his horse for four days and four nights before being placed upon a scaffold beside the bodies of his warriors in accordance with the Omaha ritual. On the eve of October 18, the curious come to this high point (Continued on page 53)

HOW TO MAKE PAPIER MACHE' GOOSE DECOYS

MY PARTNER landed the last northern of the day, so we headed toward the car. We were halfway 1 to the car when I noticed the pickup in front of us. It was loaded to the hilt with goose decoys, so I asked the driver what was up. He replied that he was getting ready for a honker hunt, and that he was taking a small portion of his decoys out to the blind. I introduced myself and found out that John Stensvad and his partner, Mike O'Rourke, had made all the decoys out of papier-mache. Both were from North Platte, and they have been making decoys for about 13 years. John told me that they can make one for $3, which is pretty good, since a purchased decoy costs around $12. Later, he invited me over to see how these homemade jobs are built.

A few days later, John notified me, saying they were starting a new batch, so I headed over to watch the process. Mike told me that there are six different steps in making a decoy. First, a "master" decoy must be built. Then, a concrete mold is made from the master. After the mold has dried, the actual decoy is made. John told me that two molds have to be made for each decoy, one for the left and one for the right side. After the two halves and the legs are made, the decoy is waterproofed and painted. The whole process takes several days to complete.

John took me on a step-by-step explanation of the whole process. To make the master decoy, decide on the To graph honker pattern, allow one inch per square on body. Graduate to two inches for wings because of size size and shape of the bird you want to build. Then place two pieces of cardboard together, one on top of the other, and cut out the desired silhouette. You can make a decoy in sitting, standing, feeding, and even the landing position. After cutting out the silhouettes glue them together. The most practical paste is made of flour and water. The paste should be thick enough to be applied with a paint brush, and it works best if allowed to sit overnight. Glue the two silhouettes together with a few drops of paste and press them tight. After the paste has dried, build up the form of the master decoy. Use paper and rags and hold them in place with the paste. After the desired form is attained, let it dry overnight. Remember to keep the sides, or edges, tapering inward. This prevents binding that will hinder the removal of the master or the actual decoys from the concrete mold. After drying, take a long knife and break the two pieces of cardboard apart by inserting the blade between the glued areas and twisting.

From here on, directions pertain to only one half of the decoy, unless otherwise stated. The same directions apply to the other half, too. You are now ready to make the concrete mold. Place the cardboard side of the master decoy down on a piece of plywood big enough to leave a four-to-six-inch border around it. Glue the decoy to the plywood. To make the sides to hold the concrete, nail additional strips of plywood to 48 NEBRASKAland the bottom piece of plywood. Large tin cans are helpful in reducing the amount of concrete needed for the mold, and can be used in the neck and tail areas. After removing the top and bottom from each can, it can be cut down the seam with a pair of tin snips, then nailed to either the bottom piece of plywood or the plywood sides of the mold. These sides should be at least three inches above the highest part of the master.

After the sides have been nailed in place, brush the entire inner surface of the mold with paraffin. Use a double boiler for melting the paraffin. This wax acts as a lubricant when removing the decoy from the concrete. You are now ready to pour the concrete or whatever substance you decide to use. Concrete, ready-mix plaster, or plaster of paris can be used. When pouring, add strips of clothes hanger wire to the neck and tail areas for extra reinforcements. When the concrete is dry, turn the mold over and remove the master. Don't worry if it breaks because it has served its purpose. After the master has been removed, brush the entire inner cavity of the mold with more paraffin, making sure there are no binding areas.

Now, you are ready to start the actual decoy. To make it, you need the paste, paint brush, some strips of plywood, a large piece of burlap, and plenty of paper. The burlap should be large enough to fit inside the cavity and still have four inches or so left over. Newspaper is readily available and works fine for building the hard shell. It should be cut into triangular strips at varying angles. Paper towels absorb more paste and will work in the neck and tail areas the best, but they are more expensive. Avoid paper bags, they won't absorb the paste.

Wet the burlap, but don't have it sopping when it goes in the mold. The four inches of burlap left hanging out of the depression should be folded down next to the concrete. After the burlap is in place add the paper. Put the top edge of a triangular piece of paper next to the top edge of the cavity of the decoy. Apply an even layer of paste to the paper with the paint brush letting the bottom of the paper fall where it may. Do this to the entire area of the cavity. For the neck and tail areas, use narrow strips of paper, but be sure to use lots of it in these areas. Apply approximately 12 layers of paper to the mold and slit the overhanging burlap so it can be folded back inside the depression. You may have to cut the cloth wherever there is a curve in the shape of the decoy. After the burlap has been folded back inside the depression, apply enough paste to hold it in place. Apply another 12 layers of paper and paste and then take a coffee break.

After all the paper has been added to mold, cut two reinforcing pieces out of plywood. Shape them so they will fit in the tail and in the back. They should fit as close to the sides of the mold as possible, and should be level with the edge of the mold. Hold them in place with paper and paste. Let the two halves of the decoy dry for 24 hours before removing them from the molds. They should not be completely dry when they are removed, and should be teased out by gently lifting out the tail area so that the rest of the decoy will follow.

After both halves have been removed from their respective molds, place them on a flat surface until they are completely dry. Use a grinding wheel to smooth off the rough sides and to trim the edges. Test for flatness by holding them against a wall. Smooth off the edges again if necessary for a close fit.

Before gluing both halves together, cut one more silhouette from the plywood leaving a two-inch border. Prepare some epoxy (Continued on page 53)

ROUNDUP

glass blower who will be on hand to fill requests.

Visitors to Minatare may not understand a word that is said on November 11, but they will understand the festivities that abound. The annual German-Russian Festival will treat outsiders and localites alike to feasting, dancing, and all-round merriment throughout the day.

From the people who built a nation to the architects who made it livable is just a skip in space for November. Joslyn Art Museum will host an exhibition of selected photographs of Outstanding Contemporary Architecture November 12 through December 3. Subjects for the show run from photos of style and material to pictures of their uses in architectural efforts. Offices, homes, apartments, and college buildings are just a few of the photographs that will be on display.

Never let it be said that Nebraska is in a rut when it comes to things to do. November 18 and 19 proves the point as Omaha swings into its cat show, sponsored by the National Cat Fancier's Association. Approximately 90 per cent of the felines on hand will be of the blooded championship variety. Several hundred dollars worth of trophies and ribbons will change hands during the big show. Entries will be judged on mannerism, coloring, smoothness, grooming, and bone structure. For name-droppers, Pepper, glamour cat of the year, will be on hand to preside over the affair.

Perhaps the highlight for any November is Thanksgiving Day. But this year, there is a different twist. Besides turkey and all the trimmings, TV viewers will get the opportunity to look in on Lincoln's closing Centennial event program. While commercial transmitters may pick up the show, it is now scheduled for an educational television broadcast. The show will be presented immediately following the Nebraska-Oklahoma football game.

Besides Lincoln, Omaha, Wayne, North Platte, Scottsbluff, and Grand Island will host area centennial festivities. Each city will plan a varied schedule of activities for all age groups and each will decide at a later date on what is to take place. However, most events will resemble the Centennial wind-up festivities in Lincoln.

The Lincoln Pigeon Club gets into the act November 25 and 26 when they put 14,000 feathered missiles on display at the State Fair Grounds Exposition Building in Lincoln. The club plans special emphasis on tumblers, fan tails, and modenas, the cream of the crop in any pigeon roost. Birds from all over the U.S. will be on hand at what the Lincolnites are billing as the Centennial Show. There is no admission charge.

Movie-goers will have a heyday at Joslyn Art Museum throughout the month with such films as "The Vanishing Sea", "The Playboy of the Western World", and "The French School of Painting" on tap. Showings will be in the museum's concert hall and are open to the public.

No matter what the visitor or native desires, he is sure to find it in Nebraska during November. From the country's finest football to the crack of gunfire in the state's hunting grounds, fun is at fever pitch all month.

WHAT TO DO

A SHOCKING EXPERIENCE

frogs, spiders, mice, and other artificials. Largemouth bass were our prime objectives most of the time, but when business slacked off during the hotter part of the day, we switched to smaller lures to entice some of the lesser fish. Small green sunfish could be taken quite easily on little jigs and spinners. We found crappie just a little farther out from shore than the sunfish, and somewhat less inclined to bite. Although we saw some northerns cruising the lake we never landed any, but several drum were hooked on spinners and minnows.

Even in the periods when fishing was slack there was no lack of amusement. The banter between the two students eventually got everyone else involved, 50 NEBRASKAland and kept the outing from becoming dull. Each and every fish caught by Lanny or Delmar was chalked up loudly on a verbal bulletin board, and aspersions were cast on the opponent's tackle and ability. Even Larry Morris became involved after he proudly landed the only two white bass caught in the two days.

The high point of the first day came when Lanny pulled a tumbling act. Some of the crew had just run a check on all the jugs and the boat was pulled up to the north piling. After a few minutes of fishing, Lanny clambered back down to the boat to exchange some item in his tackle box. The flat-bottom was tied to a piling and the front deck was a little damp. When the student put his foot down, he skidded and flipped neatly overboard in a wild, gyrating somersault. It was a colorful show. Mike, who was recording the excursion for magazine illustrations, promptly included a down-angle shot of Lanny dragging himself from the water.

When part of the crew returned to town Thursday afternoon for some lunch, things calmed down. Those of us who remained were fishing so efficiently and quietly that a deer tripped lightly right up to the bank above us before being startled by a moving rod.

During this quiet period one of the jugs jerked mightily. Leon, the patrolman, and Dick, the conservation officer, had been taking fish periodically. Each had taken one bass, some drum, and some crappie. I decided that in order to make it look like I was being useful I would pursue the jug and land whatever was on it. The jug bobbed repeatedly and began moving about the lake.

As both boats were gone to town, it was necessary to cast out and hook the jug with a fishing lure. I climbed the bank and gave chase. The brush, bushes, and trees were so thick that carrying a rod through them was as frustrating as trying to push a log chain. Meanwhile the jug was moving down the other side of the lake at a good clip.

The project was abandoned when I spotted two touring northerns and tried to tempt them with the lure. This also was a futile attempt. At the same time I saw the northerns, another one was spotted along the pilings by Leon, who was working a corner of the pond. Finally, Leon recovered the jug and pulled in a good-size drum.

Leon and Dick know what they were doing around any fishing waters and they were proving it. They stayed right on the job even during the blistering heat and accounted for a goodly number of our total catch. Wayne and Ed were also highly touted as experienced anglers, but their efforts were interrupted by the long trip to town.

Just minutes after our arrival at 7 a.m. on the second day, a cold rain started and heavy showers poured down for a couple of hours. Then the sky cleared somewhat, but it remained cool and windy the rest of the day. It kept us busy running down the jugs and redistributing them.

After the fishing crew had worked the lake for over a day and a half, the shocking rig was assembled. Then we discovered our project was going to be bigger than we had anticipated. The river was fairly high and this put the water up on the lake as well, so the electrodes could not reach all the fish.

A first sweep was made around the entire perimeter of the lake and it netted us more than three dozen fish. Several other fish were spotted, but they regained their senses before the boat could be maneuvered through the debris to recover them. The largemouth bass appeared to be headquartered in two small areas around some old pilings and near a construction project started at some early date by beavers.

All the fish taken on the first round were tallied and then released in one of the adjoining ponds. On the following sweeps, however, we removed only the carp, suckers, and gizzard shad. The game fish were fin clipped and again released in their home pond. The two biggest bass taken, a two-pounder and a three-pounder, were netted on the first sweep and were among those dumped in the neighboring lake.

During subsequent runs we found that other released bass were returning to their favorite haunts on the southeast corner. After the bass were clipped and released, some apparently rushed right back over to the other corner, for some of the marked fish were taken on the next round.

When the shocker is running, action is fast. The electrodes extend about 8 feet beyond the front of the boat and send out 230 volts. Most of the fish surface and splash around when the electrical field makes contact. An area about four feet to each side of the electrodes is affected by the current, which confuses or knocks out both small and large fish. Fish are comparatively safe in deep water, though, as the current only reaches down about five feet. A foot switch controls the power and dowses the juice if the operator falls overboard.

Equipped with large landing nets on eight-foot poles, Lanny and Delmar deftly scooped up one or two fish at a time and dumped them in the tubs. Only when a fish recovered before being spotted or when debris got in the way did one escape.

Different fish react differently to the electricity. Small fish merely float to the surface in a quiet sleep. Largemouths rush ahead at full steam, trying to avoid the circle of current. Catfish twist around, then poke their noses out of the water for a few moments while regaining their senses. Carp do considerable splashing around while most big fish leap out of the water as if they were hooked and fighting the line.

Only small crappie had been caught with the rods, but the shocker brought up one that measured over 14 inches. Only a few crappie were taken with the shocker, however, and no catfish at all. This proved the deep water protected many of the fish. To overcome this difficulty, a longer cable was attached to the center terminal to chase the fish out of the deeper water. We hoped this would drive them into the shallows where the full force of the generator could get to them. This had some effect as the next sweep around the edge produced more fish, but others must have returned immediately to the safety of the depths after being herded into the shallows.

In all, 36 fish were taken by hook and line in the two days. Ten were crappie, five were bass, and nine were sunfish. Four cats (all taken at night on the jugs), six drum, and the two white bass completed the catch. The shocker produced a total of 78 fish, including 21 gizzard shad, 18 carp, 17 carpsuckers, and 8 largemouths. Four bluegill, three crappie, three green sunfish, two white bass, one redhorse, (Continued on page 53)

OUTDOOR ELSEWHERE

Blanks Maybe? Hunters found the doves elusive when the dove season opened in east Texas. One gunner used three boxes of shells to get five birds. Another hunter averaged one bird per eight shells expended. Still, no one was discouraged even though it poured rain. One dove hunter said, "I'm going to miss two more birds, then go home." — Texas

Criminal Tabby. A game warden's cat had a bad habit of stalking birds. The four-year-old daughter of the warden caught tabby bird chasing, and called, "Where's your hunting license? You big violator, your — Pennsylvania

Forgetful. When a hunter arrived at his destination, he discovered he had no shells at all for his shotgun, and the wrong ammunition for his rifle. He had also forgotten to buy a hunting permit, and later in the day he fell asleep at the wheel and wrecked his car when it left the road. To top it off, he found his driver's license had expired two days before.— New Hampshire

Spare Leg. A frog with two good hind legs is often hard to catch. Jack White in New York, however, caught a three-legged bullfrog. An amphibian with a leg to spare is an unusual find in frog circles.— New York

Sinistroverts vs Dextroverts. Sinistroverts read magazines from back to front and dextroverts from front to back. A survey by a leading magazine showed 44 per cent of its readers are sinistroverts and 56 per cent dextroverts. — Michigan

Does She Dye It? Claude Clubb caught sight of an unusual looking coon and set his dogs on her trail. True to their noses, the hounds treed the blonde-colored coon, 10 miles east of Heavener on the Poteau River in Oklahoma. Claude later donated it to the Muskogee Zoo. Coon was a wide-eyed ringtail with blonde, almost orange fur. — Oklahoma

Tight-wire Act. When a sea gull became tangled in pieces of twine on a power line, and struggled to get free, a marksman seeing the bird's troubles, freed it with the second of two shots. —Anon

Bird Watcher. One motorist was the victim of fickle fate when he left his car to follow a brood of partridges into the woods. He returned to find his car had rolled down a bank, so far that a wrecker had to retrieve it.-New York

A SHOCKING EXPERIENCE

and one buffalo made up the remainder of our catch. Only one fish was taken both by hook and line and later by the shocker. This was a green sunfish. Three bass were taken twice by the shocker.

The results were disappointing, but still interesting. We knew there were considerably more sunfish and crappie than the shocker produced. Also, no catfish or drum were taken electrically, although we had landed several on hook and line. It was logical to assume there were more of all other species as well.

So, while the project was far from satisfactory from the technical aspect as the deep water required more refined equipment, it was interesting and fun for us. After checking our results we decided that anglers, like everyone else, get into a rut. They develop fishing habits which are hard to break, such as always returning to their favorite lake, pit, or bend even when the fishing is poor. We also proved again that rod-and-reel fishing is mighty inefficient. Still we couldn't discount the fun we had. We were surprised to learn from Dick and Leon that not many anglers fish the bayous and oxbows. Certainly fishermen who ignore the river's backwaters and cutoffs are missing some exciting angling. There is real sport on the big river although every outing won't be an "electrifying" experience.

GOOSE DECOYS

resin and apply it to the edges of the halves. Place one half on the plywood silhouette, and then treat the other half of the decoy in the same manner. When you place this second half on the plywood, position it so that it registers with the first half. Cut some bands from an old tire tube and use them to hold these two halves sandwiched to the plywood. After the two halves have been banded to the plywood, add some sanding dust to the rest of the resin and apply it to the areas that are not in register. After the resin has dried, grind off the excess part of the centerboard making it flush with the decoy.

If you want a standing decoy, you are now ready to make the legs. Use a long-shank one-inch drill and bore two holes through the decoy's back, and two through its belly. Drill the holes at an angle so the legs are naturally positioned. You can either insert two one-inch rods into these holes or you can insert two wooden one by ones. If you Use one by ones, square the holes with a knife. Whatever material you use, make sure it is long enough so that the ends will be flush with the decoy's back and the other ends will protrude out the bottom holes by one inch. The two rods should have a 3/16-inch hole drilled in them about four inches deep, for the removable legs. After the holes have been drilled, the rods should be inserted into the decoy and resin used to hold them in place.

Legs can be made from 3/16-inch welding rod and should be 18 inches long. Four inches of the rod will fit in the wooden shaft, seven inches will be for the actual leg, and the remaining seven inches will go in the ground. Rubber hose, 3/8-inch in diameter, is used to cover the rods that are the legs of the decoy. Feet are cut from several thicknesses of an old tire tube and glued together. To help pull the decoys out of the ground, a V-shaped rod can be welded seven inches up from the bottom of the rod. This V-rod should not extend past the width of the webbed part of the foot.

You are now ready to waterproof the decoy, and this is the most important part because if it gets wet —you're sunk. Resin and sawdust may be used, as can plastic tile, the same type that is used for floor covering. The plastic tile is dissolved in lacquer thinner, and can be applied with a paint brush. Cover the entire decoy with this waterproofing and let it dry. If too much of the waterproofing is used, bubbles will form and eventually peel off. Therefore the waterproofing should be applied in very thin layers so that it doesn't collect in pools. Sawdust or sanding dust can be added to the resin or plastic to correct any imperfections and to improve the overall shape of the decoy.

After the waterproofing has dried, paint the decoy. The three colors are white, black, and saddle tan. A spray gun should be used to blend the colors. Automotive lacquer primer can be used as a base to prepare the surface, and the colors can be mixed at the paint store. Some sporting-goods companies sell regular decoy paints, but the local paint store can furnish you with flat house paint that works equally well. The first coat of saddle tan is sprayed on the back and sides of the decoy. Next, white is sprayed on the bottom and front. Black is then used on the head and tail areas. Spray a patch of white for each eye. Let each layer of paint dry before applying another color. Use a picture as a guide when painting the decoy.

After the last coat is dry, you should have a fine-looking decoy. The rest should come easy.

WORLD FAIR

socially elite, the procession consisted of flower-bedecked vehicles driven through the grand court. Every imaginable blossom turned the buggies into a kaleidoscope of color. Each entry was judged and prizes awarded the most outstanding.

Watching was only half the fair, however. A gigantic seesaw lifted the more adventurous 100 feet into the air for an over-all look at the grounds. And beer gardens did a flourishing business with those who made the exposition an allday affair. The streets of Cairo kept patrons busy exploring the back alleys and hidden secrets of the infamous city.

But, like all fairs, the Trans-Mississippi Exposition began to lose steam toward the end. President's Day, October 12, put the finishing touches to what had been the biggest fair Nebraska had ever seen. President William McKinley arrived in Omaha the evening of October 11. The next day everything broke loose. Indians put on a sham battle for the Great White Father and his entourage. After the battle, they staged a full-dress parade. But perhaps the highlight of the fair was the President's speech. The war with Spain was going well and his exuberance spread throughout the audience as he spoke. However, he seemed to ignore the accomplishments of the fair in his concern for the war.

Then, on October 31, 1898, the Trans-Mississippi and International Exposition ended. Buildings and walkways fell silent. In 1899, the Greater American Exposition took up residence on the grounds, but the glory of Nebraska's World Fair was gone. In time, the buildings began to crumble and finally man razed the monument he had built. But the memory lingers on. Today only a collection of photographs from the F. A. Rinehart Galleries in Omaha and a book prepared by the fair's Board of Directors remains. But they recall the days when Nebraska staged the only money-making world's exposition in history, to save itself from the dark days of deep depression.

RIVER GIRL

and await the cry of a ghostly squaw who mourns a dead husband.

Nee-shew-da's heart is the settlement of her people, Macy. Macy is a combination of the letters of the MAryott trading center and Indian agenCY, the first buildings to be erected on the reservation. Today a turquoise-color water tower shaped as an inverted thermometer announces to passers-by, "this is Macy". At its foot is the Tribal Council Hall, a brick structure with a prominent mosaic in rust, maize, and blue portraying the white man's interpretation of the Indian. Two years old, the building is the seat of local and tribal government.

In translation, "Omaha" means "against the current" —a reference to the tribe's migration up the Des Moines River. Ironically, these peaceable people NOVEMBER, 1967 53   never fought the white man's tide. While their red brothers massacred the interlopers and set their homes ablaze, the Omahas lived quiet, domestic lives. Their shelters were permanent earthen huts except during the summer buffalo hunt when portable teepees followed the hunters. After each meat expedition, the tribe gathered for a reunion and gave thanks for all their blessings. The summertime festivals of the old Omahas are now the celebrated powwows of today. In the old days, the Indians lived simply. Hunting supplied their wardrobe and much of their diet. Corn and other vegetables came from small gardens at their permanent campsites.

In 1854, a treaty was signed with the United States government which allotted 301,000 acres of land in what is now Nebraska to the Omahas for a reservation. When the Winnebagos wandered into this eastern Nebraska territory, the Omaha ceded 85,000 acres to them. Now, after a century of private land sales, the tribe owns only 31,000 acres, about one tenth of the original claim. But a renaissance of tribal pride has blossomed in recent years and as A. W. Gilpin, chief executive of the Omahas, says, "We'll fight tooth and nail before we give up the land of our people." The black treasure of the land has become a passkey to eventual equality and the Indians are purchasing all acreage in the region that comes up for sale.

Last year's corn harvest netted 107 bushels per acre. The 100 acres of milo and 50 acres of beans made good showings while chickens and hogs held well. Plans are in the offing to bring a hydraulics plant to nearby Walthill. Jobs will be opened initially to 40 men from Macy, and eventually the industry will expand to employ 100.

Housekeeping has also taken a turn toward the Twentieth Century in the Sunrise Village Housing Development on the fringe of Macy. This meandering row of rainbow-hued homes, split levels and duplexes, is a far cry from the linoleum-covered shacks and shanties of yesteryear when three or four families were crowded into two or three rooms.

The housing project was undertaken in 1964 with the support of federal aid and Mrs. Edward Cline, Macy housing director. Forty contracted units plus 10 mutual-help units have been completed. In this program, 10 families are selected from applications to construct the 10 homes they will occupy. All tenants pay a monthly rent according to their financial abilities and are furnished central heat, a refrigerator, and stove. Housewives now socialize over coffee cups and a game of bakino (similar to bingo) while children romp on playground equipment purchased from a closing country school.

Adult education classes, sponsored by the Bureau of Indian Affairs, are held in Community Hall of the development's administration building. Courses range from plastic and ceramic crafts, care and maintenance of the home, to furniture refinishing.

Two blocks from the development is the elementary school and annex, a traditional red-brick landmark with an attached structure of light yellow brick and multi-colored paneling. Teenagers go to high school at Walthill where 90 per cent of them complete their public education. Fifty per cent of the grads go on to colleges and universities where they prepare for the business and professional world.

The Indians preserve their tribal faith in the Native Church of North America. However, congregations of two Mormon Churches, the Dutch Reformed Church, the Catholic Church and the Bahai faith reflect the work of missionaries. The Native Church worships one god, Wakonda, who created all. Services are held in a teepee, temporarily raised for the occasion, and they last from sunset to sunrise. Thus the faithful feel they have sacrificed a night's rest for their lord.

As the high-banked road snakes westward toward the verdant curtain that bounds the reservation, there is something more than just outdoor splendor about the area. There is a new sense of activity, a new confidence in Macy, for its people have their eyes on the far horizons. Nee-shew-da, still beautiful, still possessed of a lanquid and tranquil charm, is no longer satisfied with the sun and the sky, and the river below, enchanting as they are. Her spirit is ranging far, her desires are increasing, and the vistas of her future are wide in scope. Nee-shew-da is proud of her verdant land, but prouder still of what is to be.

BUCK BY THE BOOK

movements. I set up several blinds on islands in the Loup River near Monroe. There are several reasons for this. First of all, the cover on the islands is dense. Secondly, deer travel them a lot. Cattle don't usually graze the islands, so deer have a little privacy and a good source of browse, especially late in the fall when the grain fields have been harvested.

I constructed blinds on both the north and south sides of a run. Thus, if the wind was from the north I could take the south perch, and vice versa. Wind direction is an important factor in hunting deer with a bow. Each blind has to be an ideal shooting platform as well. Most blinds require a certain amount of work with a machete. Little branches that could deflect an arrow and ruin a shot had to be cut away.

As the summer progressed, I kept practicing until those silhouettes were full of holes. I wanted to use fiber-glass arrows for the hunt and after purchasing several different commercial brands and trying them out, I found the best ones were designed by Gary Baltz, a Nebraska conservation officer at Albion. I always seemed to get a better grouping with the Baltz-designed arrows. Yellow was my color. I read that it is extremely important to see the arrow shaft when aiming in order to tell whether you hit or miss, and if a hit, how good or how poor. Since I am partially color blind, the yellow shaft showed up the best for me.

I set my limit for shooting a deer at about 25 yards. Some more experienced bowmen shoot farther than that, but I felt every yard past 25 increased the chances of a cripple. One thing I didn't want to do was wound a deer and let him escape to maybe die.

With the archery season just a few days away, I made all the final preparations. I bought plenty of buck scent and I got in all the last-minute practice I could. Also, I had to stop smoking my 54 NEBRASKAland favorite cigars. I never smoked in any of my blinds and didn't even take my hunting clothes inside the house. If they picked up cooking odors or human scent, deer could be scarce around my selected area.

I had set my goal on a buck, at least for the first two months of the season. Toward the end of November, with the days getting shorter and the weather colder, a fat doe might be very tempting. Either sex is legal in archery hunting, and you know the old saying, "You can't eat horns".

On opening day, I was in one of my blinds at 4:30 a.m. I didn't score that morning, but I kept at it and during the first few days I saw several does, and a buck frequently enough to keep up my hopes. Once, four does, all within shooting range, milled under my blind for about 45 minutes. Several times I could have reached down and scratched them with my bow, but I still had a lot of season ahead of me, so I just watched.

My blinds averaged about 10 feet off the ground, and usually deer don't look up quite that high. Maybe bucks do, though, because they would always manage to let me see them at about 50 to 60 yards and on out, but they never came much closer. The urge to send one of my yellow arrows flying into one of those does came often, but that old buck desire was just too strong.

Rifle season rolled around, so I laid my bow aside for a few days and took my .30/06 out of storage. I killed a nice buck on the third day of the rifle season, and it really made me realize the tremendous difference between hunting with a bow and with a rifle. As soon as rifle season was over I was back in my lofty hideouts waiting to bag that big buck.

I went to the blinds at least once a day when the weather was even halfway permissible. Several times, the weather was not too pleasant but I figured maybe that's when I would get my big chance. Hunting the evenings usually produced more deer sightings, but I prefer bow hunting in the mornings because I was always afraid of getting a shot and then with darkness coming not be able to trail the deer. A shot in the morning would give me the day to trail my victim and lessen the chances of a cripple getting away.

I didn't mind the many hours that I spent sitting in the blinds. I like to be out-of-doors, watching the sun come up, the birds fluttering about, and the squirrels rustling around. Even though I loved just sitting there, not a minute went by when I wasn't silently watching the clearings for antlers.

After awhile I got impatient. I had seen quite a few bucks and had one shot. I missed. The arrow had gone right over the buck's back and that big beauty didn't waste a second leaving the area. I saw quite a few does, but bucks seemed to be mighty scarce. Maybe I just hadn't built the hideouts in the right places. I began to wonder about all that "book learning", and even doubted what I had learned from experience. I had looked for choice deer runs, buck rubs, fresh tracks, and virtually all the signs that deer make. The islands had always been good hunting, but I couldn't figure what had happened to all the wary whitetails.

I just couldn't give up because I had already passed up too many excellent doe shots, and besides I might never live it down if I brought back a little doe.

Being the avid football fan that I am, I was pretty upset after watching the University of Nebraska football team get beat by the University of Oklahoma on Thanksgiving Day. I couldn't stay around the house with my misery, so about 4 p.m. I gathered up my bow-hunting equipment and headed toward the river and my deer blinds.

I climbed into a blind and got situated. Once I got settled, I never moved. I had been sitting there for about 30 minutes continuously scanning the surrounding area when a noise in the distant brush startled me.

The sun was just sinking over the trees and in the semi-haziness I saw the noise maker move into a clearing. It was a nice white-tailed buck, the first I had seen in a long time. He wasn't on the regular run and I lost sight of him immediately. I kept listening and straining to hear or see him again. I could hear the graceful animal ghosting through the brush, and then out of nowhere he stepped onto the deer run. He stopped and took a suspicious look. At first, I thought he was going to go the other direction, but he decided to come my way. Now he was only 50 yards away and the suspense was mounting. Was he going to keep coming or wasn't he? I wondered if this was another 50-yard turn-around trick. I knew I would get only one shot if I got any and I wanted to get this rack real bad.

The deer was in anything but a hurry. It seemed like hours as he took another good look around. When he was about 35 yards away, I positioned my bow for the shot. About 20 yards away, he turned, took a few steps, and moved his head to the right. During that second, I pulled my bow to a full draw and released my yellow fiber-glass arrow.

The buck jumped and bounded off like a turpentined cat. I knew I had hit him and hit him good for I had seen the arrow strike just behind the deer's left shoulder. I watched for as long as I could see him and when he vanished I climbed down from my tree roost.

My buck had run up the trail for about 200 yards then taken to the dense brush. I couldn't see him but I could hear him moving. Even with my partial color blindness, I picked up his heavy blood trail. The blood was frothy and full of air bubbles signifying a lung hit. I followed the blood for about 175 yards into the brush and there was my deer. He was stone dead.

The buck was an average whitetail about 21/2 years old, with 4 points on each side of his rack. Later I learned that this was bigger than the one I had taken with my rifle which gave me a great deal of satisfaction.

As I stood there reminiscing I fully realized that the success of the hunt was due to pre-planning. All the little details like the wind direction, sharp broadheads, camouflage, and shooting form had been ironed out smooth and precise, so the actual bagging of the buck was almost anticlimactic.

I had bagged my buck with a bow, even if it was "by the books".

GRANDPA RIDES AGAIN

the summer. It wasn't snowing when I rode the top, but cramped legs and an aching back convinced me that misery rode on the black roof of second-class passage. Narrow wooden strips, spaced six inches apart, ran length-wise on the roof. After my all-day bounce I decided that riding a rail out of town would be a pleasant experience compared to what I NOVEMBER, 1967 55   had endured. Grandpa may have been calloused to the ever-bouncing stage, but to a person who is used to a pad on a wooden chair, the accommodations had bruising results.

But passengers aboard Old Sore Seat were at a greater disadvantage than their forefathers in another way, too. As the world changed, so did the concept of speed. Grandpa hollered "slow down" at 15 miles-an-hour, and I yell "giddy-up" at 60 when I pass another car. Bob's four-horse team averaged four miles an hour, only a mile or two under the average speed in gold-rush days. But to us the miles seemed longer than they really were, because we are conditioned to higher speeds. Grandpa would have considered our time good —we complained about it.

In this hurry hurry world we live in, man sees, but does not comprehend. As the Nebraska panhandle crawled by my window, the slow pace of the coach forced me to discover the land's varied and awe-inspiring beauty. By stage you hear and see all, and I envied Grandpa for the first time. Not a wild flower, a jackrabbit, a fawn, or an antelope went unheeded. The smell of pine lasted for an hour, instead of minutes; a bird's song was heard and listened to, and the winds blowing across the Sand Hills added to the concerto of the creaking coach. Grandpa saw the world as it really is, where my concept is blurred by the speed of the 20th Century.

But even as beauty slipped by the window, mid-day blues rolled up the sun-drenched trail. As the sun reached its peak, the newness of stagecoaching had worn off and it was then that the full impact of Grandpa's way of life hit us. Our bones ached from too much bouncing, throats were parched, and the trail dust ground its way into every pore. Minutes were hours, and hours were days. We were hungry. Like passengers on a ship we were sea sick, except that I termed it prairie sick.

Every 10 or 20 miles, Grandpa could depend on a leg-stretching stop at a stage station that not only offered cool water, but food and a refreshing cup of coffee. But now the stations were gone with only a sign or two to mark their existence. Our station was a truck that was either a few miles ahead preparing for a change of horses or else lagging behind. Water was available, but it wasn't always cool and coffee was an oddity. The first two days there was food, thanks to Merle Kilgore. After that we depended on a friendly rancher and a Sidney Chamber of Commerce representative. Sometimes the portable stage station lost us on the maze of back roads, and other times we lost it as we headed across country where only a stage could go. We fudged a bit by staying nights at motels, but then Grandpa would have stayed at stage stops, too.

To dwindle away the long hours, I tried sleeping. But just as my head would nod, a sharp jolt would end my short-lived slumber. Following the lead of western movie stars, I rested my head on the coach's wall and tilted my cowboy hat over my eyes. On the first good bump, my hat bounced off and I was rubbing a painful knot on the back of my head.

On the run from Crawford to Alliance I had a whole seat to myself. Tired from the 13-hour first-day ride, I fashioned a pillow out of my jacket. Laying down on the seat, I found the coach too narrow, but solved the problem by sticking my gunboats out the window. As the rocking stage played cradle in the tree tops, I started counting Indians. A numbness in my left leg quickly told me that at least one part of my anatomy could fall asleep on the coach, but unfortunately this position would never do.

Billed as "the sleeping wonder" back in Lincoln, because of my ability to snooze during a pro-championship football game, the art of sleeping on a stage had now become a challenge. The day before, two girls had managed to catnap on the roof, so I decided to give it a try. Long enough for a tall Texan, the roof looked like a king-size mattress minus the box springs. My back had taken the brunt of stagecoach torture, so I decided to bruise my stomach. My eyes slowly closed, but the sudden thought of rolling over in my sleep quickly opened them. You don't roll over on a stage unless you are ready for an eight-foot fall. The idea of sleeping on the coach then became a fantasy and I started composing a nasty letter to the movie producers of America.

For the next few days I figured I could shake the sleeping habit, but smoking was a different proposition. I had 10 matches and plenty of cigarettes, but by conserving the fire, I thought I could make them last through the day. The first match was quickly extinguished by a gust of wind and by the seventh match I looked like an India rubber man as I tried to shield the flame. The tenth match did the trick, but in the process I nearly singed my eyebrows as a rut jerked my hand. As I puffed, my mind drifted back 100 years and I pictured a mustached cowboy trying to roll a cigarette. I chuckled as a bump scattered his tobacco to the winds and when he finally got it rolled I howled when he singed the tips of his handlebar. "Things could be worse," I said to myself, "but not much."

Although violent guns of the Sidney-Deadwood trail have been holstered for almost a century, they were drawn again in four fiery ambushes as Old Sore Seat rumbled through Nebraska. But time has changed the outlaw and his mount. The bandits fired harmless blanks, but the horses didn't know it. More than one robber almost bit the dust when jittery mounts turned broncs in a near-rodeo free-for-all. The horses pulling the stage had been waved at, honked at, and shouted at, but they drew the line when it came to being shot at and Bob had a job on his hands trying to calm them.

As we pulled out of Crawford, rumors came that some tough hombres from Hemingford and Alliance had some mean plans in store for stagecoach 1967. The hollow clop of the horses' hooves hitting pavement, intermingled with the sandpaper sound of the coach's brakes, echoed along the streets of Hemingford as we carefully moved through town, flanked by members of a posse. As we rounded a corner, a black-hatted cowboy on top of a building took a bead on the driver, and squeezed off a round. Almost simultaneously other roof-top ambushers threw shots our way. Outnumbered, we surrendered, but in doing so we became the first stage passengers in history to hold up a group of outlaws. Our booty was a round of soft drinks for all of us. In Alliance, Dangerous Dan and his crew proved to be tougher than Jesse James, and we gave up without even attempting a getaway.

Labeled as an easy mark for robbers, the word traveled fast. Our informers told us the Dalton gang was camped near Bridgeport, and they had a money-hungry look about them. It was the last day on the trail and nothing would surprise Bob now, not even the sight of three masked men coming off a hill to block the rear, and several more thundering in from the left and right, their guns spitting fire. The teamster pulled the coach to a stop and (Continued on page 58)

NEBRASKAland TRADING POST

GRANDPA RIDES AGAIN

reluctantly the passengers lined up outside the coach. But the stagecoachers had a few tricks of their own. They handed the outlaws a leather sack full of cow chips, instead of the rich reward the masked men expected.

But Westerners are known for their humor and good nature. Without the many kind people we met along the trail the trip would have lost some of its sparkle. Take Merlin Woodworth, a Sand Hills rancher, who rubbed his eyes in disbelief as a stagecoach rumbled through the rolling hills and pulled up at his house. Ambling up to the coach, imagine his surprise when Bob asked him, "Which way to Bridgeport?" Merlin countered with an offer for lunch, and then directions, and when you are lost in the hills and miles from nowhere, you just have to accept. Then there was the rancher who took Game Commission photographer Richard Voges up in his plane so he could find one lost coach. They found us and pointed the way home.

The holdups were highlights on the trip, but long after the outlaws have faded from my memory, I will remember the people of Marsland who congregated at a ranch near the town to greet us. I'll never forget when the towering buttes guarding Crawford came into view. The town turned out to greet us, and suddenly I was no longer tired. I will remember the members of the Sidney Chamber of Commerce who made the whole trip possible, and the almost tear-jerking experience of the final whoa in Sidney that meant an end to our pioneer trek.

But even more important, I made many friends on the journey. The quarters on the stage were cramped, there weren't any radios, and the days were long. To while away the hours we talked. At first the conversations were general, but as the miles rolled by they became more personnal. We joked about the horses, the scenery, each other, and the forever rocking coach. By day's end, there was a feeling of togetherness, and we realized that we each had shared an unforgetable day with a stranger, who now was an enduring friend, and here lies the true value of stagecoaching.

The West Grandpa knew has changed, but the effects and side effects of stage-coaching have not. We cheated a little bit when we pulled the coach for a few miles by car to keep the horses off of slick blacktop, and to stay on our rigid time schedule. But Grandpa wouldn't have cared, he believed in taking advantage of one's environment.

Maybe 100 years from now, Old Sore Seat will come to rest in some museum. Probably a bronze will be inscribed: "Dedicated to those 18 stout-hearted passengers and their driver, who in 1967, rode this coach down the Sidney-Dead-wood Trail."

If that happens, I'm going to turn to my great grandson and say: "Young fellow, pass me a pillow, I've experienced stagecoaching 1967 style."

WHERE-TO-GO

THE NINETEENTH Century's answer to refrigeration, Crystal Lake at Ayr is the Twentieth Century's answer to recreation. Railroads in the Gay Nineties built a spur to this Blue River back up to pick up the ice that wras harvested and stored there. Later, this was shipped to terminals in Omaha and Kansas City for refrigerating boxcars used for perishables. Today, Crystal Lake ranks among Nebraska's top seven recreational areas and is a year-round host to tourists, hunters, and anglers.

Located 10 miles south of Hastings, this recreation area is reached by U.S. Highway 281. As the axis point of Minden's Pioneer Village, Red Cloud's Catherland, and Hastings' House of Yesterday, it attracts tourists from all 50 states. Many hunters, as well, headquarter at Crystal Lake and take advantage of the surrounding area's excellent squirrel, pheasant, and rabbit shooting. Cold-weather campers find the place a winter wonderland, for snow makes the nook a living Christmas card.

The visitor enters through a pair of brick pilasters into an outdoor playground. Left, right, and ahead, the river and its offspring, Crystal Lake, bound his steps. A central plaza with tables and shelter house serves picnickers and other fun seekers.

Electrical outlets, showers, and toilets have been provided for campers, tenters, and weekend trailerites. A narrow pathway leads from this "settlement", past a pentagonal stone pavilion to the lake beyond. Hikers can cross a quaint white-washed footbridge which permits a leaning investigation of the miniature cement spillway below.

Towering elms and locusts heavy with bean pods, scatter the sunbeams as the path forks left beneath a grove of broad-trunked cotton woods. Their yellow heart-shaped leaves resemble a patterned linoleum when fall frosts send them fluttering earthward. Farther along, the pathway opens to another "isle" of humanity. Fireplaces dot the area about a native-stone shelter house. In the distance, a white pagoda covers a red-painted water pump.

During the summer, visitors can obtain picnic supplies, ice cream, and cold drinks at the concession stand on the grounds.

Due west is the Little Blue River. Fishermen perch on its banks awaiting the tug of a catfish, bullhead, or carp. The average cat weighs out at two pounds, though an eight-pounder took the record last season. Restricted power boating eliminates disturbing wakes. The tour ends as the path continues to the superintendent's home on the central plaza. Crystal Lake at Ayr is small compared to many of NEBRASKAland's recreational areas, but it makes up for it in charm and accessibility.

To the west, in Nebraska's land of sunsets, the Brandhoefer "Mansion on the Hill" stands overlooking Ogallala. It is now the Keith County Historical Society Museum and is located on U.S. Highway 26 on the north edge of the town.

This museum showplace has been nicknamed "Heartbreak House". Legend claims its builder, L. A. Brandhoefer, Ogallala mayor and bank founder, erected the three-story "palace" in the late 1880's as a wedding gift for his bride-to-be. The finest carpenters and craftsmen were brought from Chicago, Denver, and New Jersey to construct the classically-styled home with its narrow windows and ten-foot ceilings. When Brandhoefer returned to Chicago he found his fiancee had married another. The house was sold and Brandhoefer left Ogallala forever.

Today, the partially restored Victorian mansion is open to visitors. Woodwork throughout the house is of solid walnut and cherry with hand-carved corner blocks. The first-floor living center with library, parlor, dining room, and kitchen boasts antique chandeliers and hand-carved mantels over the tile fireplaces.

A gracefully curved cherry-wood stairway leads to second floor. Here a large restored master bedroom, a nursery, and two other sleeping apartments are to be seen. The third floor is a single veranda-type room.

The mansion, with its romantic atmosphere and old-style charm, adds to Ogallala's long list of tourst attractions and is particularly interesting to those who appreciate fine craftsmanship in wood and tile.