NEBRASKAland Magazine Photo Contest

This photograph is submitted with the understanding I agree to be bound by the rules of the NEBRASKAland Color Photo Contest as published in NEBRASKAland Magazine. For additional entry blanks include above information or write NEBRASKAland Photo Contest, P.O. Box 30370, Lincoln, Nebraska 68503.

For the record... WHO OWNS WILDLIFE?

There was a time when it didn't matter whether a hunter could think or not. All he had to do was find his game, get it in his sights, and haul it home after the shooting. Now, however, things are different. With the point system for ducks, each gunner must identify the species and sex before he shoots. And, with more and more hunters in the field, big-game hunters must be dead sure of their targets before they squeeze off their shots. With hen pheasants on the protected list, scattergunners must know what their speeding targets are even before they begin their swing. So, more than any other sport, hunting has become a game of clear thinking and accurate identification.

With that trend in hunting, some weighty questions have arisen. The moral issue of hunting is constantly questioned, and the right of landowners to restrict hunting inspires heated discussions. And, from all concerned with the sport comes a most oft-asked question —who owns wildlife?

Hunters indicate that it is impossible for the farmer to own other than his own property and the crops on it. How can one lay claim to a population that runs wild and free, they ask. Landowners, on the other hand, frequently note that they provide cover, feed, and shelter for animals that roam their land. The mere fact that wildlife carries no brand deters very few, if any, of them.

Such rationalization puts the two factions at loggerheads.

I personally feel that the farmer has a certain priority, not only to defend the game on his land, but to take a fair share as a sort of payment. After all, his crops are the nourishment which keeps the wildlife alive, and it is he who allows acres to become habitat for the animals which frequent his fields. For many, wildlife has an aesthetic value with which they are not willing to part for the sake of the hunter.

But, sportsmen must be understood, too. Simply to let the resident game populations multiply themselves into oblivion is a cruel course, indeed. Starvation will run rampant through populations that are allowed to continue uncontrolled. And, farmers' yields will feel most acutely the pressure brought on them from mushrooming generations of wildlife.

The battle lines are drawn and each faction deems wildlife its own, but this is no more valid than each person laying sole claim to all the earth. Instead, there must be some middle ground, an area in which landowner and hunter learn to co-operate, to live side by side in a give-and-take situation. Who owns wildlife? We all do, and it seems that the best avenue toward better understanding is for each faction to take the desires of the other into consideration and strike a happy medium for the good of all—even for wildlife.

Who's who in water pollution?

We've used our nation's waterways as sewers for 200 years. Now we have dirty rivers, dying lakes, and fouled seashores. Our clean up plans are mammoth, but our progress is slow.

Speak Up

WHOOPS-'I'll bet Sam Bass never used a High Standard .22 revolver to do his evil work as you did for the historical marker on the inside back cover of the February NEBRASKAland. And, he surely didn't have a zipper on his coat.

"I loved your February hostess, but you'll probably get a lot of mail on that one.

"Regardless of your faults, I still enjoy NEBRASKAland and recycle it by sending it to a teacher friend in India where it is read by hundreds."-Allan Skinner, Oregon, Wisconsin.

UNIQUE SCHOOL-"I have been a rural school teacher for several years now, and would like to tell you a little about the present school in which I am teaching.

"It is called the Burr Oak School, District 63 in Custer County. It has been in continuous operation for almost 100 years, but we cannot be certain how long it has been open because the Custer County Courthouse burned down in 1910, destroying all early school records. There is one individual, however, who is in his 90's and says the school was there before his birth. Some of the children now attending the school are the fourth generation of families who have gone there.

"I am certain many changes have taken place within the past century in the school. In fact, it has not always been known by that name, but has had two others that I know of. The oneroom school became a modern one just five or six years ago, and this past year new carpeting has been installed. Modern teaching methods such as the use of tape recorders have also been introduced."—Jean Marshall, Eddyville.

RECOLLECTIONS-"This poem, in memory of Charles Simmons, Scottsbluff artist, was written by Susan Skorupa of Denver, Colorado. She lived across the street from Mr. Simmons from the time she was four years old until his recent death." —Vilma Toufar, Columbus.

ONE STEP FURTHER-"In regard to the article, On the Trail of the Kiowa, December 1971, Samuel Davis Sturgis not only attained the rank of brigadier general during his military career, but was promoted to the rank of major general of Volunteers on March 13, 1865.

"Having been given the permanent rank of full colonel following the Civil War, Sturgis assumed command of the Seventh U.S. Regiment of Cavalry on May 6, 1869. Contrary to popular belief, it was Sturgis who was the regimental commander, not George Armstrong Custer, when the Seventh Cavalry rode out of Fort Lincoln, North Dakota that foggy morning of May 17, 1876, in an attempt to link up with the columns of General George Crook and Colonel Gibbon.

"Colonel Sturgis, getting on in years and disenchanted with the bleakness of frontier duty, absented himself from Fort Lincoln whenever he could. He was in the east during the Centennial of 1876, and because Custer, a lieutenant colonel, was the ranking officer of the Seventh Cavalry at Fort Lincoln, it was he instead of Sturgis who finally was permitted to lead the ill-fated troops out of the fort to their destiny. This came after Generals Terry and Sheridan interceded in Custer's behalf in Washington, since the brash, flamboyant Custer, in President Grant's opinion, was nothing more than an unreliable 'troublemaker'.

"One of the officers who rode with Custer was one of Colonel Sturgis' sons, Second Lieutenant James Garland Sturgis. He died with the rest of the troops at the Little Big Horn River in Montana on June 25, 1876, and for that, Colonel Sturgis maintained a neverending hatred for the memory of George Armstrong Custer." — H. M. Mateja, Honolulu, Hawaii.

RELOCATION PLEASE- I was born and raised in Fort Calhoun, and have noticed that whenever mentioning Fort Atkinson as in the February issue of NEBRASKAland (Outpost of Expansion), you place it '9 miles south of Blair' or '15 miles north of Omaha'.

"Actually, it is on the outskirts of Fort Calhoun which, incidentally, has a new museum with very many interesting things found around the site of Fort Atkinson.

"Please have pity on Fort Calhoun and put it on your map— it is on others." — Donna Kruse, Kansas City, Missouri.

We couldn't have put it better ourselves. From now on, we'll try to include Fort Calhoun as one of the jumping off points for those wishing to visit Fort Atkinson State Historical Park which is now under construction.— Editor.

Cover: The Larson and Sedlacek families, and Mary Nickels, all of Columbus, enjoy a day of camping in Ponca State Park. On page 7 is a scenic view of the Seven Sisters near Fort Robinson. Photos by NEBRASKAland's Lou Ell

NEBRASKAland

NEBRASKAland, published monthly by the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission. 50 cents per copy. Subscription rates: $3 for one year, $5 for two years. Send subscriptions to NEBRASKAland, Box 30370, Lincoln, Nebraska 68503.

Copyright Nebraska Game and Parks Commission, 1972. All rights reserved. Postmaster: If undeliverable, send notices by Form 3579 to Nebraska Game and Parks Commission, Box 30370, Lincoln, Nebraska 68503. Second-class postage paid at Lincoln, Nebraska.

Travel articles financially supported by DEPARTMENT OF ECONOMIC DEVELOPMENT Director: Stanley M. Matzke; Tourism and Travel Director: John Rosenow.

What a Lineup!!

The Big Haul

I REALLY don't know just where this story should begin, but I do know that the events touched the lives of several people, and will probably be remembered for a while by most of us.

My wife, Ruth, and I love camping and fishing, so from our home in Omaha we visit many of Nebraska's lakes and streams. From early April to late October in 1971, we spent 16 weekends outdoors, from the Brownville State Recreation Area on the Missouri River to Merritt Reservoir near Valentine.

But, it was November 1 3 that year I remember so well. We had returned to Branched Oak Reservoir near Raymond that Saturday because my wife had landed an 11-pound, 4-ounce northern the day before. We couldn't get a Master Angler application then, so had obtained one in Omaha and returned to have it certified at the store where we had the fish weighed.

Not wanting to waste the day, even though the weather had turned nasty — cold and windy —we decided to go fishing. So, about 10 or 11 a.m. we were sitting in my 12-foot boat fishing off the face of the dam. Then, we heard some young people out on the lake yelling "Hey, hey, hey!" I thought they were either horsing around or calling to someone on the bank. They were quite a distance from us, so it was difficult to see them clearly or make out what they were doing.

After about five minutes of yelling, my wife said she thought she heard the word "help", so we immediately started taking in our poles (four of them), and the two anchors we had out. Of all times, the anchor lines were tangled so that it took several more minutes to work them loose and get them into the boat.

While I untangled the lines, my wife had been yelling and waving her arms at three men in another fishing boat north of us. She told them to follow us as someone needed help.

The young people were still shouting and my wife was yelling back that we were coming. Finally, we got underway.

When we got nearer, I saw four young men and one girl in the water. The long, narrow racing shell they had been rowing was swamped beneath them. The other fishing boat was still some distance away and moving very slowly, so the only thing to do was load them all into our boat. I was a little leary, because our boat is only 52 inches wide, 19 inches deep, with a 7 horse motor. It is just a nice size for 2 people.

The youngsters were so cold, numb, and exhausted from the ordeal that they could hardly pull themselves aboard, but at last we were all crowded together. I was even going to pull their shell in, but by then the other boat arrived, so I asked the operator to tow it.

Heading for the south shore as fast as my small motor would go, I watched the youngsters shiver uncontrollably. Suddenly Ruth shouted that we were taking water. I immediately throttled down and took stock of our situation. There were seven people in a boat meant for no more than four, only two life jackets, five people so cold they couldn't swim five yards, waves kicking up from a strong, cold wind, about three inches of freeboard left, and quite a distance yet to shore.

We were so jammed together that I soon felt the water from their clothing getting me wet.

We finally got to shore safely, and the other boat brought the shell in. I helped the boys get it out of the water and onto the bank. Then I noticed that the other fishing boat was much larger and roomier than mine, but it had only a three-horse motor, which explained why it was so slow.

During all this confusion, no one had been introduced, so I only know that the young people were students at the University of Nebraska and that the other three anglers were from Douglas County.

One thing I do know. Despite our several good fishing days, that was definitely our biggest haul of the season, and I'm glad that my wife and I were there to help. THE END

HOW TO, Waterproof a Map

ANYONE WHO has devoted much time to reveling in the back country far from civilization or hard-surfaced roads knows the value of a good topographic map. But, even a good map can become worthless. It can dissolve into a handful of pulp after a river dunking or become a mass of tattered shreds after repeated use. Here, then, are some ideas you would trade your best knife for, should your map be rendered useless in strange surroundings.

Although an extremely simple process, few people ever take the time to waterproof a map. Yet, there are materials on the market which make it a task lasting only a few minutes and costing only a few cents.

First is the matter of getting the map. There are offices throughout the state which make them available. Every county in Nebraska, for instance, has an Agricultural Stabilization and Conservation Service office, which provides them. They have a sample copy on hand for you to look at, but additional copies must be ordered, so plan ahead. If these maps do not suit your purposes, there are other sources. The Conservation and Survey Division, University of Nebraska, 113 Nebraska Hall, Lincoln, Nebraska 68508, is a good bet. They have topographic maps on file of most sections of the state. These are detailed enough for almost any excursion, whether it be a wandering trek over rough terrain or a canoeing trip along a strange river.

An index showing the mapped areas is available free of charge. From it, you can determine the areas you wish to traverse. Maps can then be ordered for 50 cents each, including tax and postage. Also, the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission recently printed a map of the Pine Ridge area which can be obtained free by writing to the Commission office at Box 30370, Lincoln, Nebraska 68503.

Now for the protective coating. Perhaps the best method is to cover the map with special plastic sheeting. One of these is known as "Seal-Lamin", a thin, transparent material sensitive to heat. You simply lay it on the map, cover it with a piece of heavy paper, and run a medium-hot iron across. The heat from the iron laminates the plastic to the map. You should be careful to work outward from the center of the map to prevent bubbles, and it is best to experiment before tackling your main project.

Also, you might want to cut your map into smaller sections, allowing narrow spaces between them so that after lamination you can fold the map without actually folding the paper. Or, you can cut the map into sections and put them together in book fashion in a sequence according to how you will travel the area.

The lamination plastic is available in cut sheets or rolls and costs roughly 10 cents a square foot. The rolls are 11 1/8 inches wide, but the shortest length is 50 feet. Once you use it, however, you may think of other projects needing protective covers, so the length may not be a drawback after all. The narrow width of the roll will almost certainly require seams, so unless you work it out so that the seams coincide with the cuts in the map, it is then best to overlap the edges slightly to insure a watertight seal. Directions on how to use this material come with the packages, which can be obtained from school-supply firms.

Another method is to use adhesivebacked plastic, such as clear contact paper. With this type, you simply peel off the backing and place the plastic over the map and press it flat, again being careful to avoid bubbles and wrinkles. This material is a little more costly, but for the small amount necessary, it might be worth it. This, too, comes in sheets or rolls.

Remember that both the front and back of the map must be covered to make it waterproof.

Perhaps the easiest method, but which offers the least protection, is to spray your map with aerosol waterproofing. Most spray-paint manufacturers have products on the market known as clear plastic, clear lacquer, or silicone. Give both sides of the map one or two coats of this spray, and it will last fairly long.

Another process used to make a paper map more-or-less permanent is to give it a cloth backing. Again, the map can be left in one piece or sectioned, so that when you fold it, only the backing is creased. This cloth backing is available complete with adhesive backing for easy application. Or, you can use any light cloth, such as cotton muslin, and apply it with waterproof glue. Then the cloth-backed map can be sprayed with waterproofing for additional protection. Seal, Inc., of Derby, Connecticut 01648 is a source for plastic and self-sticking cloth.

Regardless of which technique you use, you'll head into the boonies feeling much more secure knowing that your map will last the outing none the worse for wear. THE END

Be Prepared

Safe vacations are no hit-or-miss affair. Certain precautions will assure a happy journey

ACCIDENTS AND ILLNESSES don't take vacations. People do. Whether you're taking a weekend jaunt along the Blue Valley Trail or a several-week trip to the Pine Ridge, the Nebraska Medical Association suggests forethought and planning to prevent illness or an accident from tagging along. Plan ahead to leave home with peace of mind. Take your time in traveling, and pace yourself throughout the trip.

Longer trips take more planning. Before you leave home, make a list and check off such items as canceling milk, newspaper, and bread deliveries. Notify your post office to hold your mail. If you can arrange to have a few lights go on and off with electric timing devices, your home will look lived in and discourage prowlers or vandals. Arrange to have the lawn mowed. Leave your key with a friendly neighbor or relative so you can relax and travel without worries about your home. And, you should notify the police department that your house will be unoccupied. Valuables should be stored atyour bank.

Before you leave home, have your car thoroughly checked, including brakes, battery, tires, headlights, tail and stop lights, directional signals, steering mechanisms, exhaust system, horn, and emergency brake.

Up-to-date family immunizations mean worry-free travel, too. If your family has a regular health checkup program, your immunizations will be current, including diphtheria, tetanus, polio, and measles.

One disease which is often vacation-related and which can be prevented with immunization is tetanus, or lock jaw as it is commonly called. Lockjaw is a vicious killer, striking down more than half its victims. Many adults forget to get a tetanus shot, but they should have a booster every five years.

If a member of your family requires special medication, make sure you have an adequate supply for your whole trip. Ask your physician about any special protection you may need for traveling into certain areas. You may wish to take an extra pair of prescription sunglasses and allergy medicines if the vacation climate requires them.

There are 40 million people in the United States who have medical conditions which need some special attention in emergencies. When traveling, the Nebraska Medical Association urges use of medical identification that communicates this information.

In 1961, the American Medical Association and other interested organizations discussed ways to identify a person's medical needs in emergencies. The AMA designed a symbol and offered it to all who publish cards or make signal devices. Whenever the emergency symbol is seen, it is an indication that there is important information regarding the wearer's health somewhere in the victim's clothing.

The symbol is a six-point star of life with the snake-entwined staff, symbolic of the medical profession, framed in a hexagon. The symbol can be used on pendants or bracelets.

Unfortunately, many people who may need special help do not wish to be identified as having a problem. For instance, some epileptics may be torn between the need for identification during a seizure and the fear of social stigma by identifying themselves as epileptics.

The association suggests that young children wear identification tags, particularly if they do not talk yet. Identification is suggested not only during travel, but also at home in case the child gets lost.

Free medical identification cards and signal-device information are available. The cards give name, address, physician's name, some basic medical information, and the name of the person to notify in an emergency. The cards and signal-device information are free upon request from the Nebraska Medical Association, 1902 First National Bank Building, Lincoln, Nebraska 68508.

Be sure to pack first-aid supplies last in your travel gear, so you can reach them first when you need them. Small first-aid kits are acceptable for minor scratches and burns, but not for major injuries.

Pack an American Medical Association, American Red Cross, or Boy Scout first-aid manual. Add bandage or blunt scissors, fever thermometer, one or more enema packages, one roll of one-inch finger bandages, one roll of twoinch roller bandages, one plastic bottle of tincture of green soap, a package of double-ended cotton applicators, a package of cotton "pickers", and a package of sterilized gauze squares in envelopes.

Your kit will need a roll of one-inch zinc oxide adhesive plaster, a plastic bottle of eye drops (prescribed by your physician) for use after a sunny, dusty drive, and an eight-ounce plastic bottle of isopropyl alcohol (70-percent grain alcohol) for skin disinfection.

Once assembled, it's easy to replenish your first-aid kit as needed. Plastic bottles are safer than glass.

Emergency equipment for car travel includes at least six triangular bandages. You should store some pieces of wood in your car trunk to be used as splints. Pack a blanket, too, for emergency care.

Your automobile should carry a flashlight with fresh batteries and highway warning signals or warning lights for emergencies. When you're on the road, pace yourself and your family for a comfortable journey.

Check the food and lodging on the road by the overall cleanliness you observe for yourself. A good restaurant needn't be fancy or expensive, but cleanliness is an important factor in maintaining good health standards.

When you're traveling in a strange community and an emergency health problem arises, the emergency room of the nearest hospital is a safe place to find treatment or advice. You can call the local medical society, if the town is large enough to have one, or the public health department. These organizations are available to help you find a physician in an emergency.

Your general health and the way you feel probably have as much to do with a successful, fun-filled trip as anything else. Regular health checkups and preparation before you leave home, are the first steps to happy traveling.

But, remember that even good preparation is not a substitute for careful driving. Add planning and preparation to a careful driver, and you're on your way to a happy, healthy Nebraska vacation. THE END

Wipeout

CANOE EXPERTS STRONGLY agree that white water is for experts only. The amateur, they preach, is heading straight for trouble when he tackles a stretch of rough, white water. This sageness takes us back seven years to adventure on the thundering current of Nebraska's Snake River.

The story really began when veteran outdoorsman Lou Ell, NEBRASKAland's chief photographer, challenged a stretch of the Snake River below Snake Falls in Cherry County. Lou had planned to ride the river from the falls to its confluence with the Niobrara, a distance of about eight miles, but the river was too spirited for him, so after several dunkings, he gave up the mission.

Canoeing enthusiasts from across the state had prompted the attempt with inquiries to the Game and Parks Commission about the navigability of that stretch of the Snake. The Commission was unable to respond because no one had traveled that portion of the stream. Then the experts appeared.

We pick up the action of the Snake River Canoeing Expedition on a clear morning in mid August, 1965. Assembled on the east bank of the river, fully equipped and ready for anything, are Dudley Osborn, Boating Chief of the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission; Jim Nelson, Midwest Regional Boating Co-ordinator for the American National Red Cross; Ted Dappen, Director of Public Health and Safety with the Nebraska Department of Health; and Ted's son, Leon. All four are certified small-craft safety instructors, certified Red Cross first-aid safety instructors, Red Cross approved lifeguards, and veteran canoeists. Photographer Lou Ell looms in the background loaded with cameras and memories of his earlier, unsuccessful attempt to conquer this portion of the Snake.

Lou's warnings about the river's treacheries and the difficulties the expedition will encounter fall on deaf ears.

As Dudley says: "There isn't much luck involved in mastering a fast bit of white water. It's their knowledge and experience that take good canoeists through safely."

The early morning sun sets fire to the crimson sumac dotting the rolling Sand Hills as the foursome unpacks gear. Talk about thorough preparation. Nothing has been overlooked. The canoeists have extra clothing, food, water, matches, first-aid equipment, blankets, and ropes. All supplies are stored in waterproof, steel canisters.

The fellows unload two 17-foot aluminum canoes together with their paddles. The superb organization and teamwork of the expedition is obvious as the unloading process is rapidly completed. Next, they launch the canoes. Most outdoorsmen would have been stumped, but not this team. It is about 100 feet from the top of the bank down to the water —straight down. Leon calmly opens one of the canisters and removes a rope. Within minutes the canoes are down on the water and ready for the journey.

With all the equipment, it looks as if the trip will last weeks, but the experts estimate they will cover the eight-mile stretch in about 4 hours. It is 0800 hours when the expedition takes off. Dudley  

Lou runs along the cliffs shouting: "Wait, dammit! Wait up!"

The Snake is running full guns as the water churns through the 15 to 20-footwide rocky riverbed.

Then it happens.

Canoe No. 1 rounds a bend in the stream about 400 yards from the starting point. Canoe No. 2 falls behind. When it follows round the bend, Dudley and Jim are struggling to drag themselves out of the river. Canoe No. 1 is upside down and trapped by the pressure of current against a rock.

Ted and Leon quickly land and help the drenched pair get ashore.

Wet and cold, Dudley holds his right leg below the knee, a horrified look of anguish on his face. Dudley's leg swells to horrendous proportions and everyone, including Dudley, is certain the leg is broken.

While Jim explains what happened, Ted splints the injured leg. The leg is not cut open, but it is the worst contusion Ted has ever seen.

"We hit a rock," Jim says. "The canoe glanced off the rock and we lost control. The current smashed us into that windfall. Dudley stuck out his leg to avoid it and got his foot tangled. That upset the canoe."

Ted knows the twosome must have been moving very fast to be thrown like that, since Dudley tips the scales at 275 pounds and Jim at 200.

"We'll have to get Dudley to a hospital," Ted announces after splinting the leg. "I'm afraid it's broken."

Dudley's leg continues to swell unbelievably as the men make plans to get him to a doctor. But, in escaping from the grip of the powerful, cold current, Dudley and Jim have crawled onto the west bank while the cars are on the east, so they have to get Dudley across the river. And, once they get him across, they have to, somehow, get him up a steep embankment.

A plan is quickly put into action. Leon ties one end of the rope to a tree on the west bank and swims across the stream with the other end. He makes it across, but the current has washed him downstream. Finally, he works his way back to a point straight across from his companions and secures the rope to a tree on the east bank. Ted has emptied canoe No. 2 by now, so he and Jim load Dudley into it. The plan is to take the canoe across, hand-over-hand on the rope.

Everything is set. Dudley lies sprawled in the middle of the canoe, half unconscious from pain. Ted is in the bow and Jim in the stern. They cling to the rope and begin pulling the canoe across the stream. Things go well for the first three seconds, but when the canoe goes into the current broadside, the water threatens to upset the craft. To counteract the water's force, Ted and Jim lean upstream. But the counteraction is too much. Water washes in and sweeps the canoe away from under the trio of sailors.

Leon gasps.

The cold water brings Dudley around just fast enough for him to grab Ted's belt. Ted clings to the rope for his life. Jim reacts too slowly to catch the rope, but manages to catch a hold on Dudley's left, uninjured leg. Like a kite in a gale, Ted is the kite, hanging onto the stretching rope with Dudley and Jim awash in the current.

It is a life-or-death situation. If Ted lets go of the rope, the water will dash the trio against the rocks. Ted and Jim might live through it, but Dudley's chances are slim.

Ted gives his all to pull himself and his 475-pound cargo to shore. By this time Lou has caught up on shore by running along the bluffs. Leon and Lou then plunge into the stream and help tug Dudley and Jim onto the bank when they come within reach.

Heaving a giant sigh of relief, Ted gets to his feet. Thinking out loud he says: "If anything worse could happen today, I don't know what it could be."

The crew ties a rope to the trapped canoe, trying to pull it off the rock. All pull on the rope, fighting a tug of war with the current.

The rope breaks suddenly and Ted falls. A piercing groan indicates that the fall is a hard one. He struggles to stand, holding his side with both hands. The hatchet secured to his belt has come up against his ribs. Its sheath has prevented a serious tragedy, but the ax has, nonetheless, delivered a painful blow to Ted's ribs, and the injury takes its toll by reducing his strength and output for some time.

Leon retrieves the rope by taking himself, hand-over-hand, to the other side of the river, untying it, and swimming back to the east side. He climbs the bank and ties it to a tree. Ted, Jim, and Lou then get Dudley onto his one good leg and the four of them start up the incline. Fortunately, the bank is loose enough for them to dig toeholds as they go. Also, the bank is covered with bushes for them to grab for support. As they go up the hill, Dudley pulls on the rope, Ted pushes Dudley's right hip and Jim the left, and Lou pushes from behind.

Everything goes smoothly until Jim reaches for a wild rose bush. As the thorns dig into his fingers, he hollers and lets go. All of them tumble down.

There they are, all in a heap about halfway up the hill, but there is no time to commiserate. The only thing to do is pick up and keep going. Ted climbs to his feet and starts pushing Dudley. Jim doesn't move. "Get up!" Dudley yells.

"I can't," is Jim's muffled response. "You're sitting on my head."

With Ted's help, Jim finally squirms loose. Then, after much ado, they continue up the hill.

About 10 minutes later, the bedraggled foursome reaches the top. By this time, Lou goes after one of the cars and brings it as close as he dares, but that is still 200 yards away. Rough, Sand Hills terrain prohibits him from driving any closer.

So it's off to the races again. Leon and Jim hook hands and Dudley plops down on the chair they form. Away they go. Just walking on such terrain is a task in itself, but for Jim and Leon, carrying a 275-pound cargo is something else. Those 200 yards are the final test on their endurance.

A few minutes later the foursome is on its way to Valentine's Sand Hills Hospital.

Here ends the action of the Snake River Canoeing expedition, but there is an epilogue. Upon arrival at the emergency entrance, (Continued on page 61)

Ponca Cures

THE CORNER DRUGSTORE was the medicine lodge; the pharmacist a medicine man. His pharmaceuticals included herbs of every sort for every purpose, and a series of mysterious incantations and spells to ward off disease, carry away spirits, or induce the presence of benevolent powers. The Ponca, living near present-day Niobrara when the whites arrived, had access to numerous wild plants. Already cultivating crops for domestic use, the tribe was able to supplement its wild diet with such things as corn and pumpkins. But, with incomplete scientific understanding of their world, the Indians found various supernatural explanations for natural phenomena quite reasonable. While white doctors practiced "scientific" bleeding and leeching, the Ponca used herb cures together with burning and cutting to take care of their sicknesses.

The Ponca recognized two types of illness, one resulting from natural causes, and the other caused by sorcery or the displeasure of the spirits. Natural illnesses and accidents were treated therapeutically with splints and herbal concoctions. But illnesses caused by supernatural powers could only be treated with stronger counter-magic. To the Ponca, magical methods were as reasonable as dressings for burns.

When a Ponca was bitten by a snake, he sent for a member of the Snake gens. When the "doctor" arrived, he dug a hole beside the fire with a stick, then sucked the victim's wound to draw out the poison. The purpose of the hole is a mystery.

While modern medicine is still searching for a remedy for the common cold, the Indians had cures that, if not effective, were at least enough to keep the patient busy until the cold went away. "Cedar eggs", the fruits and leaves of the cedar tree were boiled together into broth designed to penetrate the body to cough-control centers. To clear up sinus congestion, there was the smoke treatment—cedar twigs were burned and the smoke inhaled. A blanket was draped over both fire and patient to keep medicinal fumes enclosed. Calamus root was chewed as a cough-drop substitute, and a decoction made from the rootstock was drunk as a cough syrup. After it conquered the cold, calamus doubled as a perfume.

Yucca was also used in smoke treatment, and Jacob's ladder provided relief for hoarseness when eaten. The prairie ground cherry, too, was used in smoke treatment, as well as the rootstock of the cup plant.

In addition to other cures, a cold sufferer might burn sweet grass as incense to induce the presence of healing spirits.

For general debility and languor, the Indians took the lower blades of beard grass, which they called red hay, chopped them fine, and boiled them to form a broth.

To cure fever or headache, the Ponca crushed seeds of columbine. They placed the resulting powder in hot water and drank the infusion. Beard grass was used for bathing in case of fever, and a cut was made in the top of the head to which a decoction was applied. A fluid prepared from calamus was drunk for the same purpose. A decoction made from blue cohosh root also brought down fever.

Prairie dog food, called vile weed because of its odor, was another headache remedy. It was reported to cause nosebleed, so the leaves and tops were pulverized and inhaled to cause the nose to bleed and thus relieve the headache.

It appears that the Ponca recognized pediatrics, as they listed different treatments for children's illnesses. The Indian equivalent of liquid baby-aspirin was wild licorice. The leaves were steeped and the resulting fluid drunk to relieve the child's fever. Root bark from the bur oak was scraped off and boiled, and the liquid given for bowel trouble in children. Wild raspberry root was similarly prepared and used.

Ponca children probably never faked a stomach ache to avoid distasteful chores, for the cure was stringent. Spurge was used as a remedy for dysentery and abdominal bloating in children. The leaves were dried, pulverized, and applied after crosshatching the abdomen with a knife and abrading it with another plant. The Indians said it caused a painful, smarting sensation in the tissue.

Cattail down was used as talcum on babies, and wads of it were used as diapers.

Puffballs were a styptic, especially for application to the umbilicus of newborns. To keep infants healthy, the mother needed to have sufficient milk, and to stimulate lactation the spurge was boiled to make a decoction that was drunk. An infusion made from the stems of skeleton weed was used for the same purpose.

A rudimentary obstetrical practice also showed up within the tribe. A root decoction made from the four-o'clock was drunk by women after childbirth to reduce abdominal swelling. Smooth sumac was used in a (Continued on page 60)

The House of Brownville

Efforts to revive a dying town are divided, and may be futile because of it. But, perhaps it is not just a local problem

WHAT MARVELOUS stories are told of Brownville; of its founding and growth; of the gentle men and genteel women who overlaid America's outback with a veneer of culture; of the bawdy houses and of rugged freighters who supplied an opening West; of a steamboat era that brought both commerce and romance. They tell of great men who called this southeastern Nebraska community home; of Robert Wilkinson Furnas, second elected governor of the new state; of T. W. Tipton and Richard Brown, who served in the political ranks of a state just born; of Captain Benson Bailey whose ghost still haunts the halls he knew so well. How grand it must have been when Brownville was a thriving metropolis. And, what a sad experience it is today to see it the way it is, knowing all the while what it might have been.

Time has told on Brownville. It has become, instead of a cultural and historical center, just another small town in the throes of ebbing life. Many old houses, most of them dating back more than a century, still stand. There is a meager movement to bring Brownville back to life —to restore the dignity it once knew. That effort, though, may be not enough come too late, and Brownville is a town divided.

At least three factions work perhaps unwittingly against each other. First is the town board. Then comes the Brownville Historical Society. And last, an apathetic citizenry seemingly is content to sit back and watch its community go to seed. A tacit indictment of Brownville is not in order, however. Rather, an indictment of all Nebraskans must be served, for just as the Washington

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Some good, some bad greets the visitor. Goal is to eventually restore all buildings with taste

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John Rippey heads struggling historical society's promotions

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McKinley Kelley has watched town's life slowly ebb away

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Although an improvement, new bridge is not a tourist treat

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Tranquility and trash seem to coexist because of unconcern

Monument belongs not only to Washingtonians, Brownville belongs not only to its residents. The town is a part of Nebraska's heritage and the responsibility for its preservation falls to every Nebraskan. Total involvement is a must if this historic town is to survive. Values and priorities must be established — needed financing and a vital workload must be assumed or Brownville will wither away and die.

The town has made some inroads to helping itself, according to Mrs. C. M. Miner, clerk of the town board, and John Rippey, president of the Brownville Historical Society. Installation of running water has made the town more livable, and a sewer issue was recently bonded. The local volunteer fire department has provided public trash containers, and halved barrels accommodate flowers annually. A modern, steel bridge has replaced a wooden structure which once spanned Whiskey Run, a stream running parallel to Main Street. Water, sewers, trash barrels, bridges, and flowers, however, are not the reasons Nebraskans stream to historic sites; cleanliness, organization, enjoyment, and a chance to see things the way they were in a pleasant atmosphere are. These things Brownville does not offer. Yet, amazingly, the town continues to advertise for visitors to come and see the place.

"Tourism today is considered one of the top businesses in the country," John Rippey said. "Tourism is big, and Nebraska has done very little about it. We have probably done more about tourism in eastern Nebraska —more than anybody else. According to the State Historical Society, we're the most active and productive [local] historical society in the state."

Active the historical society may be, but that is in spite of holdings that leave much to be desired. The park, ironically, was presented to the society rather than the town by the late George W. Boettner, a move which created considerable antagonism amongst the townspeople. It has become a flourishing dandelion nursery, and removal of dead trees and debris was a half-year project, a time span which resulted in a number of complaints from visitors. The society owns an entire block facing the south side of Main Street in the business district. And, it has the Wheel Museum, a shabby storefront, which also houses the society's headquarters. Besides that, there is the Carson House, an 1880's-vintage home which is slowly being restored and is one attraction on the abbreviated tour of homes. Then, there is the Captain Bailey House which serves as a museum. Given the historical significance Brownville has to offer, these properties aren't much for the town's major historical organization to control. They are, however, a sizable chunk of real estate for only a few people to maintain. The town, it seems, won't cross jurisdictional boundaries even in the name of civic pride —to lend a hand in keeping Brownville clean. Everyone points the finger at someone else and tries to rationalize.

"Brownville needs the historical society if they would keep up their property," Mrs. Miner offered. "But we don't like trouble. I certainly would like to make Brownville more palatable for the general public. We're trying to beautify it. We'll get our flowers out in our containers and do what we can."

Simply planting flowers won't overcome many of Brownvilie's shortcomings, though. Mrs. Miner explained that the town won't go into the park or any other of the historical society's properties to clean them up, and she indicated that the society wouldn't like it if they did.

"A man who works for both the historical society and the town does the mowing down there [the park]," Rippey explained. "The town doesn't move in on our property just as they don't on anyone else's. For instance, we [the town] have a piece of property where we've talked to the owner to get it disked and the weeds mowed and he does nothing."

"Of course, the town did pay to have weeds cut there, and he [the owner] refused [to reimburse us]," Mrs. Miner put in. "We are such a small place that it isn't recommended that we bother them [taxpayers] with a small item on the taxes."

There is no way to implement some of the zoning this town has unless the town board calls in a particular person and talks to them —which they have done on various occasions. But some offenders simply mouth them [the board] back, and give them a bad time," Rippey noted.

Words, rather than action, seem to have found a comfortable home in Brownville. The local volunteer fire department provided litter barrels around town. Then the trouble began. No one showed up at the appointed time to set them out, so one man painted and placed them. Barrels are fine and a (Continued on page 62)

Predator Control ... sin or salvation?

When and how to disturb nature's balance is management challenge

A PREDATOR is any creature that has beaten you to another creature you wanted for yourself. That definition probably won't appear in any dictionary, but it's an accurate description of how many people think of predators. Although it is true, it isn't the whole truth. From a broader view, "predation" is getting food by killing other animals, and any animal that does so is a predator. Many creatures must get their food in this way to survive. Examples are bass eating minnows, swallows catching flies, coyotes killing rabbits, and hawks taking mice. Predation is, therefore, a way of life that is both natural and necessary.

The predator "problem" has to be as old as man himself. Initial forms of humanity probably exhibited some kind of resentment as they watched a large carnivore carrying off a highly prized food animal. Even worse, man was once the prey. Primitive man was as much a predator as the other wild animals around him, and his modern descendant is still a predator although probably not in the same critical way. Eating beef and chicken or hunting a wild animal is actually a form of predation. But, when a hawk catches a chicken or a coyote takes a lamb — that's different. The difference is that the creature killed was one we wanted for ourselves, and that is what many consider predation.

It is important to recognize these two views and the difference between them. Both are right, as far as they go, but neither ventures far enough to form a good basis for predator management. Both views have to be considered before an effective way of managing predators can be worked out. It is impossible to do justice to all man's interests, or to the animals themselves, by managing on the basis of either viewpoint alone.

Probably no topic in the wildlife field is more controversial than that of predator management and control, due largely to the wide variance of viewpoints. Some sportsmen resent the competition of predators for game or fish. Some farmers and stockmen whose cattle, sheep, or poultry losses are a direct economic liability become disturbed. There are people who believe that nearly all animal species should be given complete protection, whether they are predatory or not. The game manager's job is to provide the greatest possible number of various species for recreational purposes. The ecologist looks at all possible effects of predation, beneficial and harmful, in an attempt to establish the economical status of the species involved. There are people who believe that predator control is necessary in some cases, but disagree with the methods and techniques being used. There is a group of people that can be considered indifferent since they never hunt, fish, raise livestock, or commune with nature, and care little one way or another whether predators are killed.

One of the most widely used arguments opposing predator control is that these animals are essential in maintaining a "balance of nature". Proponents of this concept feel that without a balancing effect many injurious animal forms would increase to the point of being detrimental to man. They also contend that unless beneficial forms are held in check, they will outgrow their food supply and eventually starve.

Predators perform a valuable sanitation service to some prey species by eliminating the crippled, diseased, and unfit, thereby contributing to the health, physical condition, and perhaps the survival of the species. It is possible that the elimination of the unwary, slow, and stupid individuals by predators will improve or maintain the sporting qualities so desirable in a game species. Predators also kill and eat many harmful rodents each year, and in so doing perform a vital service to humanity. The total dollar-and-cent value of this accomplishment has been placed in the millions of dollars.

An argument that is being used against predator control to a greater extent these days is one that can be termed as aesthetic appeal and recreational (Continued on page 64)

The Forest is Alive

LIKE A SWEEPING WIND caressing a meadow, the crescendo spreads, engulfing the humid woodlands. In eerie chorus, the melodious proces-sional of Indian Cave's arboreal frogs usher in the darkness. Though near, whip-poor-will calls maintain a distant quality, though intense, a sound of solitude. The decadent sweetness of moist earth permeates the twilight, vagrant scents offering no hint of their origin.

Sleep comes easily.

A spring shower intrudes on the predawn hush, erasing all tracks the night creatures left. But then, glazed, greening herbs greet the sun; refractive prisms cling to blue-eyed grass.

In the Missouri bluffland it is a time for proliferation —the season to replenish. Flower tendrils drop from huge oak limbs and pollen-laden catkins of the black willow thrust bold yellow into deciduous green. Rust-colored sheaths peel away as lobate hickory leaves reach for the forest's canopy.

Vibrant forms spring from the earth's richness. Pantalooned Dutchman's breeches hang pendulously like Monday

morning labor. Shin-high blankets of Mayapple and phlox cover the forest's floor. Spiraling cones of compressed petals, sheathed in pubescent sepals, promise sweet William blossoms tomorrow. Plumb-bob buds foretell white disk flowers to adorn the Mayapple's foliage veil. The delicate charm of a yellow lady's slipper or showy orchis clashes with the massiveness of hardwood giants overhead.

Shagbark hickories slough their ragged bark while red oaks tower nearby with skin as smooth as a baby's cheek. Papaws stand naked, their fleshy red blossoms ornamenting their leafless forms. Wild crab apple, Kentucky coffee, and redbud complement the rugged bluffland.

Oak leaves rustle in an abandoned orchard. Grosbeaks, towhees, and oven birds probe for last autumn's seeds. Woodpeckers shatter the noonday lull as they fashion accommodations for squalling clutches while turkey vultures soar overhead. Even woodcocks and ruffed grouse occasionally inhabit this untouched backland.

A gray squirrel issues a boisterous challenge to intruding neighbors and a flying squirrel touches treetop after treetop. Whitetails nibble on flowering heads.

Circular land snails pass the day, unmindful of the life around them.

Clouds build. An afternoon shower nears. The Missouri bluffland pulsates.

The forest is alive! THE END

Hooked on Carp

THE CARP, a member of the Cyprinidae family, is a freshwater fish now acclaimed in all parts of the world. It is an Asiatic minnow, one of more than 200 species found throughout the world. The National Wildlife Federation acclaims it as a monstrous minnow. Europeans breed the carp for gourmets, and in the Far East it is an important food.

According to the National Association of Angling and Casting Clubs, the world's all-tackle fishing record for a carp caught with rod and reel in fresh water is 50 pounds, 6 ounces; length 46 inches; girth 35 inches; taken in 1951.

A carp's color is brassy olive above, yellowish on the sides, and yellowish-white on the belly with the lower fins tinged red. From its upper jaw protrude 4 barbels, which are sensitive tactile organs. The skin texture varies widely. In addition to the ordinary scaled carp, there are two other varieties —the mirror carp, which has only a few patches of scales, and the leather carp, which has no scales at all. Some carp in certain areas lack pelvic fins. Also, in some areas, the carp may be confused with the goldfish and the buffalo fish. Carp can reach prodigious size and may live for 200 years.

Female carp mature in about 3 years. Spawning takes place in spring where conditions are such that the eggs can be laid and fastened to aquatic weeds. The eggs are small and number between 300,000 and 750,000 a season. The carp can endure extreme weather conditions and temperatures. During the winter months it hibernates and does not take food. So hardy and rugged is the carp that it may be kept alive for days in moist moss if properly fed.

Carp are omnivorous, in that they will eat anything animal or vegetable. They feed on insect larvae and aquatic plants, worms, (Continued on page 58)

Snipes Turned Ducks

THE GRAVELLY RESONANCE of mallards filtered through the golden willows like a chorus of hoarse baritones. A false dawn spread in the east; the windless air hung listlessly. Had the pond's water remained high, our stalk would have been as easy as falling off a log, but now open sand flats ringed the water's edge for 30 feet or more, lowering our odds of working within shotgun range. Even that was not as much a hindrance as the carpet of snail shells that blanketed stubby grass around the pond's edge. Every hand and knee, however carefully placed, crushed hundreds of the crusty bodies. Every crunch seemed amplified by the dead-still morning. Most of the mallards were on a sandy peninsula that jutted from the bank: some were feeding in the lush aquatic growth, others were preening, and some were just resting in the typical head-back position. Thick willow growth would conceal us to within 25 or 30 yards of the unsuspecting ducks if we were "Indian" enough to work in that close.

We were still 60 yards from the birds when about 20 mallards took to the air amidst throaty cries. It looked as if we had bungled the job,

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When NEBRASKAland's Bud Pritchard hunts long bills, mallards steal the show

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But patiently waits on the bank as I retrieve mallards jumped in the reeds

  and we were trying to decide how we had spooked the mallards when more birds struck up a conversation of their own just in front of us.

The first bunch had probably moved out to feed, and our flock would likely follow any time. We pressed ahead faster —too fast!

The birds left the water low, arrowing toward midlake. By the time we could see the flock above the willows, the birds were well beyond range. We had bobbled our morning jump action, it seemed.

The ducks had been there, the terrain was perfect for a stalk, but the lowly snail and a calm morning had defeated our ambitions.

Bud Pritchard, NEBRASKAland artist and illustrator of the fauna/flora series since 1949, Greg Beaumont, magazine photographer, and I had made the 5-hour trip to the Valentine area early in the week, hoping to take enough Wilson snipe for a story. Some 10 years earlier, Bud's snipe hunt at Ballards Marsh had been featured in NEBRASKAland. What we planned was a nostalgic return to sample the snipe hunting and record the changes, if any, that had taken place over those 10 years.

Bud had wanted to hunt in early October, since that's when snipes peak during their holdover stint in Nebraska's marshland. Assorted delays and unplanned assignments, however, delayed our trip and we didn't get to Valentine until October 19, three weeks later than planned.

We stopped at Ballards Marsh, a state special-use area 20 miles south of Valentine, on our way into town. Our first survey of the wetland was disheartening. Late summer and early fall had been dry. As a result, the mowed-grass fringe that bordered the rank growth of cattail and hardstemmed bullrush was barely moist. Where this lush, short grass is slightly flooded and trampled by livestock is prime snipe country. Here the birds feed on insects and small crustaceans, and generally loaf during their southward migration, but the dry spell had wiped out most of that habitat as well as our chances for snipe. That, coupled with the fact we were three weeks late, put the kibosh on our return to Ballards Marsh.

A call to Elvin (Zeke) Zimmerman, conservation officer in Valentine, confirmed suspicions that our snipe hunt had gone down the drain. But, it also suggested an alternative we hadn't considered. According to Zeke's report, there was a substantial supply of ducks on the potholes that sprinkled the area, mostly mallards reared in the Sand Hills and loafing until colder weather. A few small flocks of diving ducks had moved in from the north, too. So, overnight, our snipe-at-Ballards-Marsh hunt had turned into a ducks-anywhere-we-could-find-them story.

Zeke recommended we check some of the lakes south of Nenzel first thing in the morning, as they had been holding good numbers of divers, mallards, and a few gadwall. Schoolhouse, Two Mile, and Medicine lakes were our morning's objective.

On the way through the Niobrara Division of the Nebraska National Forest, we stopped to talk with John Nollette, the ranger in charge of the area, quizzing him for suggestions.

"You might have a look at some ponds in the eastern part of the forest," John suggested. "Usually they hold a few mallards that rest overnight. If you get there by midmorning, there are usually a few stragglers still in the area. It's only 8:30 now. You might catch a few there yet, if you hurry."

We didn't let any grass grow under our wheels as we hustled over for a look at the area. Our scouting plans were soon adapted to include a short hunt if the possibility presented itself.

Perhaps our eagerness, coupled with visions of greenheads piled at our feet, accounted for the mammoth blunder we pulled, but I would rather place the blame on Greg, a great photographer, but a bit naive when it comes to duck hunting. Of course, Bud and I wouldn't have had to take his advice when he encouraged us to drive closer to the lake before hoofing it. But, wherever the blame should have fallen, the whole raft lifted, circled once, and left high when we drove over a rise in full view of the ducks.

On the eastern side, half a dozen buffleheads were still feeding. A high bank behind them would offer excellent cover. Though neither Bud nor I were especially crazy about eating a bunch of butterballs, I decided to try and take the drake and a hen, both 10-pointers, to add to my collection of mounted waterfowl. Bud passed on the divers and opted instead for a handful of teal that had settled in on the west pond while we were talking. So we split, Bud after teal, I after the buffleheads.

Greg, armed with only a camera, followed me, probably assuming that I was a better bet for a laugh than a salty old hunter like Bud. But whatever his reasoning, we made a wide arc behind the closest hill and came around on the east end of the lake. As I eased up over the bank, I could see that they had moved out about 15 yards. Those 15, added to the 45 or so of sandy bank, put the birds just outside my range. We sat and watched the birds bobbing about, making their occasional dives. I began measuring the length of time they stayed submerged. Usually, they were under for 10 or 15 seconds, sometimes 20 or more. I was more interested in the attractive (Continued on page 57)

Shades of Gray

PHOTOGRAPHY has evolved, step by step, from the first discovery more than four centuries ago that light darkens silver salts to the modern methods of producing color pictures in a minute. In the process, many techniques have been developed for the purpose of duplicating as accurately as possible what the human eye sees, or even capturing what the untrained observer misses.

A landscape may appear uninteresting, blanketed by blinding sunlight. But loose a photographer, and he will transform the scene into a colorful countryside. He may compensate for too much sunlight with a faster shutter speed or smaller

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Open sky will soon be lost as thunderhead builds at Branched Oak

 

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Not bald at all, eagle gets its name from its almost-white hackles

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Distance and dismal weather set mood for pinto at Fort Robinson

diaphragm opening or both, considering the circumstances for each exposure and adjusting his camera as necessary.

He uses screens to make stars of streetlights at night; filters to turn ordinary skies bold and blue. He captures lightning by immobilizing his camera on a tripod for minutes, sometimes even hours, or stops the swiftness of a teal on the wing by panning its flight. These and many other techniques he uses to capture on film what the human eye sometimes perceives as only a moving flash.

Other techniques he employs to penetrate haze or, if he wishes, distinctly define a hazy cloud. There is seemingly no end to the list of methods whereby he can enhance what is ordinarily not noticed.

But, while great emphasis is placed on color today, there is still much to be said for black-and-white photography and its mood-capturing capabilities.

Take, for example, a pinto pony in a winter storm. Its black-and-white markings stand out against the muted background of snow-covered hills rolling away to a horizon obscured by distance and dismal weather. It evokes a mood that would surely be lost in color.

Or, take the spring ice breakup on Lake McConaughy. The jagged formations jut out toward  

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Big Mac's breaking ice asks waning warmth of setting sun to stay

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Inert Cottonwood's shadow reaches out like sinner seeking solace

 

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Active as ever at 69, Bill Gronewold of Blue Hill still works his spread

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Promising rain as a premise for survival, clouds hover over Chadron farmstead

the sun's waning warmth at twilight as if asking the sun to stay. Who, upon seeing this scene, does not recall some significant moment of human warmth when a beautiful day would have lasted, had someone lingered longer?

The eerie shadow of a dead cottonwood creeps toward a deserted country church like a sinner seeking salvation, but the symbolism would be lost in color.

A formation of stratus clouds hovering over an abandoned farmstead is an omen bespeaking the burdens of the small-time farmer in an era of urbanization. Colorful surroundings in a photo such as this would destroy its atmosphere of loneliness.

Ultimately, the choice between color or black-and-white photography is a matter of personal taste. One person responds to the brilliance of a sunset, while another prefers the subdued shadows of a fallen log barely visible beside a lake in twilight.

Color photography certainly has its place, but the art of black and white with its varying shades of gray must not be forgotten. THE END

NOTES ON NEBRASKA FLORA... Bur Oak

THE EXPRESSION "solid as an oak" is a very appropriate phrase. The bur oak, Quercus macrocarpa, is a good example of strength and solidness. It is a pioneer in the advance of the forest upon the prairie. The bur oak is distributed along practically all the larger streams in Nebraska and is often found surviving under conditions which would seem too severe for tree growth.

The bur oak, sometimes called mossycup oak or overcup oak, is a sturdy tree with large, heavy branches and stout, somewhat sparse branchlets. In close stands of timber, the tree is irregular in shape and has fewer and smaller branches. Isolated trees develop a more rounded top and are often broad rather than tall. It commonly reaches a height of 60 to 80 feet with a trunk diameter of 2 to 4 feet.

The bark on mature trees is grayish or reddish brown in color. The surface of the bark is flaky and deeply cut into wide fissures dividing broad, straight ridges with flat surfaces. Large trees have bark about 1 1/2 inches thick which make the trees fairly fire-resistant.

Another distinguishing feature of the bur oak is the corky wings frequently found on young branches. These wings, or ridges, usually begin to form the third or fourth season and remain for several years. As the branches become older, these ridges gradually disappear.

The bur oak is slow to leaf out in spring. But, although so slow to bud, they are also slow to die and may live three centuries. Leaves of this tree, largest of all the oaks, are normally 6 to 12 inches long and 3 to 6 inches broad. The thick, firm leaves have a shiny, dark-green upper surface and silvery green and downy lower surface. These leaves characteristically have 5 to 9 rounded lobes which give them a peculiar, unmistakable outline. On each side of most leaves near the middle, a deep, rounded sinus reaches almost to the center, which practically divides the leaf into 2 distinct parts. In autumn, leaves turn a soft, dull yellow. Then the fox squirrels go rippling through the branches, gathering acorns for their winter store. Later, when Indian summer is over, the leaves fall early and the bur oaks take on a closedup, steely look.

Flowers of this and other oaks usually appear in May when leaves are about a third to half grown.

The acorns from which the great oak stems are usually oval shaped and are three-quarters to two inches long. The scaly and hairy cup which normally covers half or more of the acorn gives the name bur oak. The scientific name, macrocarpa, also refers to the acorns and means large-fruited. The exact shape of the acorn is quite variable but the large, fringed cup is unmistakable.

Acorns are commonly found in pairs and ripen in the fall. Acorns drop from the trees as early as August or as late as November and provide a staple food for many forms of wildlife, including deer, squirrel, bobwhite quail, numerous songbirds, and small rodents. Transportation of the acorns by squirrels is one of the primary means of dissemination of the seeds. The acorn is edible by humans and was used to some extent as food by early man. The flavor of the acorn varies, some are quite bitter while others have a sweet, nut-like taste. Good crops of acorns occur every 2 or 3 years with light crops in the intervening years. Although 30 percent of the acorns germinate within 1 month after seedfall, they are often subject to serious depredation by animals, especially rodents.

Root growth of seedlings is very rapid and the taproot penetrates deeply before the leaves unfold. At the end of the first growing season, roots have been found at depths of 41/2 feet with a lateral spread of 30 inches. This strong, early root development explains why a bur oak can be a pioneer tree on dry, exposed sites and can successfully establish itself in competition with prairie shrubs and grasses. The root system of a mature tree resembles a mirror image of the mighty structure above ground.

The use of oak for lumber has had its heyday. At one time it was used extensively for construction of barrels and in the ship-building industry. It is still used in construction of whiskey barrels and in the production of charcoal.

The bur oak is a relatively slowgrowing tree but is capable of withstanding a wide range of moisture and site conditions. It is seldom subject to serious injury by insects or to many diseases. However, livestock browse the leaves of seedlings and their hooves pack down the soil which has an adverse affect on the roots. It makes an excellent shade tree in full sunlight where growing space is not limited and the soil is rich, moist, and well drained. The bur oak is more tolerant of city smoke conditions than most other oak species.

The bur oak is a rugged tree. Its irregular form with rough bark and wayward limbs is picturesque. Like the hardy pioneers of early Nebraska, the bur oak, a pioneer of the forest, is a shining example of solidness, strength, and greatness. THE END

Roundup and What to do

AUGUST is traditionally a lazy time, with people seeking refuge from the summer sun at a shady fishing hole or in a breezy back yard. But, judging by this year's schedule of events for August, Nebraskans have livelier things in mind.

The August agenda includes all the action of rodeos, motorcycle rallies, horse racing, shooting events, and baseball. The lighthearted, gregarious nature of the state's citizens will be apparent, too, as Nebraskans gather for dozens of county fairs.

Standing guard over Nebraska's summertime fun is Tammy Hatheway of Lincoln, NEBRASKAland's August hostess. Tammy is a freshman majoring in speech therapy at the University of Nebraska and is the reigning Miss Nebraska Air National Guard.

She lists swimming as one of her favorite activities, and has served as a lifeguard at a Lincoln country club. Among her other favorite pastimes are golf and horseback riding. Tammy is the daughter of Mrs. Marge Hatheway of Lincoln.

Every weekend during August will find Nebraskans flocking to county fairs, with more than 40 of these events scheduled during the month. All this will lead to the biggest of them all, the Nebraska State Fair, opening August 31 in Lincoln.

Another August tradition, the Nebraska Czech Festival, will keep the town of Wilber hopping for two days, August 6 and 7.

August is a top month for fishing, if anglers are willing to switch tactics a bit. Lunker bass can still be coaxed from farm ponds and sandpits, provided fishermen are patient. And, rivers offer good cat fishing.

But the most successful fishermen will concentrate on the state's big reservoirs to capitalize on the fast and furious whitebass action.

Another form of fishing, one that is unfamiliar to all but a few citizens of landlocked Nebraska, will be underway during the month. Fishermen will don diving gear and take up spearguns to pursue their prey. Underwater spearfishing is new in Nebraska, but growing numbers are taking up the sport. Private lakes are open to the sport, along with 15 of Nebraska's reservoirs.

At Macy, the 105th annual Omaha Indian Powwow will bring to life the old days when the Indian was the master of the prairie. Some of the Omahas' ancient ceremonials will be relived during the 6-day celebration.

At Brownville, the Nebraska Wesleyan Players will provide another month of summer theater with some of the best student acting talent available. Meanwhile, in Lincoln, Theatre Incorporated will present another season of mellerdrammers filled with six-gun heros, lily-pure maidens, and black-hearted gamblers. During the first week of August the feature will include "He Lured Her To The Primrose Path" and "Shootout At Hole In The Wall".

More Old-West entertainment will come with the National Country and Fiddle Music Contest to be held at Ainsworth August 11 through 13.

The Franklin Fall Golf Tournament at Franklin August 20 will climax the season in that area of the state.

Flashing silks and flying hooves spell horse racing at Ag Park in Columbus from August 25 into September. With the experience of the summer behind them, the ponies will give their all to winning the daily heats at the track.

Spectators and participants alike will find August an active month in NEBRASKAland.

where to go... Willa Cather Circle tour

NOVELISTS, IT IS said, must experience everything about which they write. Only in that way can they create the word pictures which draw readers, and by the same token, acclaim. Such was the case for Nebraska's Pulitzer Prize winning authoress, Willa Siebert Cather. Born in Winchester, Virginia, in 1873, Willa moved with her family to Red Cloud in 1882. The years she spent in that south-central Nebraska community were to spawn much of the creative genius she displayed in later years. O Pioneers!, My Antonia, One of Ours, A Lost Lady, and Song of the Lark were works which relied heavily on Cather's Midwestern background, and the people and places of Red Cloud found their way into her books and the world's hearts.

Willa Cather remained one of the nation's most revered writers until she died in New York City in 1947. Even today, her talent stands as a goal aspiring writers strive to attain. In death, Cather did not return to her home at Red Cloud. Instead, she was buried at Jaffery, New Hampshire. But her spirit remains in Nebraska, and nowhere is it more evident than in the community where she grew up.

Red Cloud, then, bases its Willa Cather Circle Tour on the life and times of its well-known native authoress. Many of the places she knew as a child and young woman remain today as shrines to Willa's memory. They are all spread out before the visitor who takes the time to look for them. Red Cloud offers more than one tour, and information on all may be obtained through the local Chamber of Commerce. Guided excursions are conducted at a minimal charge, and written reservations are recommended to assure availability of a guide. Or, you can simply strike out on your own to discover a bit of Nebraska which remains much the same as Willa Cather knew it.

Red Cloud's tour begins at the Willa Cather Pioneer Memorial building on Webster Street. The towering structure was built in 1889 by Silas Garber who later served as the model for Captain Forrester in A Lost Lady. A portion of the tour can be seen from the steps of the memorial without ever taking a step. Of course, you will want to move on, though, and actually visit the State Bank Building, vintage 1883, which found its way into Cather's One of Ours. Nearby is the opera house where Willa was graduated from high school in 1890. It is now a hardware store, but  

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Red Cloud's classic Burlington depot

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Simple dwelling of fictitious Antonia

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Lovely former home of George Cather

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Memorial building was bank in 1889

its exterior has been altered little. Just north of there is the Moon Block, called the Duke Block in Song of the Lark, and across from the old opera house is Dr. Cook's drugstore where Willa helped out as a girl.

A block south of the memorial, on the corner of Third Avenue and Webster Street, Cather's story resumes on a more personal note. Besides the J. L Miner store with its high windows which were mentioned in Two Friends, a short story, here stands Willa's father's office. Over what is now a photo shop, she also had her dissection laboratory. And, a block west on Miner Street stands the home where the Cathers lived from 1884 to 1904. The house was designated a National Historic Landmark last February, and it has been listed in the National ParkService's National Register of Historic Places since 1969. This was the house of Song of the Lark, and also appeared in Old Mrs. Harris and The Best Years, two of Willa's short stories. One block west of the Cather house is the Miner house, called the Harling house in My Antonia, while across the street stands the Wiener house.

At the corner of Seward and Third streets is the site of William R. Jackson's (Uncle Billy Beemer's) cottonwood grove in Song of the Lark, and south on the same route is the restored Burlington Railroad Depot, built in 1897. Cather drew from the depot for many of her stories, and it appeared in one of the early scenes in My Antonia. Returning on Seward Street, a left turn at Third will put you at the original Catholic Church where Antonia was married in 1896, just three years after it was built. The cemetery lies only a short distance farther on, and throughout it, stones, recall a profusion of characters and titles.

Leave the cemetery the same way you entered, and proceed to U.S. Highway 281, watching on the right side of the highway for a Cottonwood grove about half a mile east. This was the setting for A Lost Lady, and on the same hill Red Cloud's settlers built their stockade for protection from hostiles. Continuing north, turn east on Third Avenue from which you can see the rear of the Royal Hotel, the remaining structure of the Boys' FJome Hotel of My Antonia. Taking Elm Street to Fifth Avenue, you will cut through the old part of town which is removed from Willa's era only by time; little has changed physically. Turning left at Fifth Avenue, cross the highway and continue westbound to Seward Street. On the corner stands the Baptist Church of Cather's childhood. Turning right, you'll find the second Cather home at the end of the block. Here the family lived from 1904 until Willa's mother died in 1931, and this is where the authoress frequently spent her summers. Across the street to the north is the site of the Methodist Church of which Cather wrote in My Antonia, while across the street to the east is the county courthouse, constructed in 1914, and which was written about in One of Ours. Continue north to Ninth Avenue and turn right. This is Quality Street according to Lucy Cay heart.

Turn right at the next corner and the Wick Cutter house with its cedar trees stands before you. Continuing south to the corner and turning right, proceed to Eighth Avenue and Cherry Street. On the north side is the site of the home of Willa's grandparents, the Burdens of My Antonia, and on the west, at Franklin Street, stands the large white house of Will Ducker,oneof Cather's teachers. Go left on Franklin for one block, then turn right on Seventh Avenue for 1 1/2 blocks. Here are the remains of Red Cloud's last house of prostitution. Willa recalled it and its madam in A Lost Lady. Returning on Seventh Avenue to Cherry Street, you will find on the corner the home of Dr. McKeeby. He was Dr. Archie in Song of the Lark, and moving on to Cedar Street and the corner of Sixth Avenue, you will encounter the Episcopal Church. Willa was a member here from 1922.

Red Cloud remembers Willa Cather, and she remembered them. And, for the expenditure of a little time, you will never forget either. THE END

SNIPES TURNED DUCKS

little drake than the rest and decided to gamble on getting in close.

When the little black and white male and a drab female went under, I made my move. Greg said later that I barreled over the knoll with the grace of a three-legged elephant, but whatever happened, the hens above water took to flight, as I had expected. What I hadn't expected was that the diving drake and hen would pop up immediately and fly away, too. Apparently they had heard the others take off and guessed the cause. In any case, they burst out of the water in a spray, all wings pumping madly. I was barely in range when they began running across the water, trying to get airborne. I pulled on the drake and let go a load of No. 5's. Water churned two feet behind. Chambering another, I led him that much and touched off the second round, dropping not the drake, but the trailing hen. By then it was too late to do any more than watch the flock wing it off to the south. The hen, somewhat the worse for wear, was sitting on the water surface with what I assumed to be a broken wing. I was lying on the sand, recovering from the fiasco and patiently bearing the brunt of Greg's caustic remarks about my running and shooting ability, when the little hen decided that she had enough of this tomfoolery. Casually she tripped across the water and flew off while I watched, dumbfounded. Apparently the bird was only dazed and not seriously injured.

I met Bud halfway, and learned that his teal were nowhere to be found. We moved on to Schoolhouse Lake.

We decided to try hunting one of the bays that was choked with cattails, bullrushes, and pampas grass. I donned my breast waders with plans to quietly work my way through the vegetation and maybe take a poke at some divers on the lake side of the rushes. Bud had forgotten his waders and decided to walk some of the marshy shoreline, thinking it looked like possible snipe territory. I was working my way through the pampas when a drake mallard flushed directly in front of me. A load of No. 5's brought him down solidly in the thick plant growth.

We wrote off the rest of the day, deciding to head for town and then check the mallard ponds first thing in the morning. We left the drake with Corky Thornton in Valentine to be dressed, bought another box of shells, and borrowed a dozen decoys for the morning.

It was Thursday and our last full day before returning to Lincoln. We were up at 5 a.m. and in the area by 6:30.

It was well before legal shooting time when we made a wide circle around the north edge of the west pond. We left the gunny sack of dekes in a washout and continued our stalk, planning to jump the ducks if they were still on the pond, and then toss out the dozen decoys and wait patiently in the willows.

There was a long, narrow peninsula jutting from the west side of the lake. The middle of it was covered with dense, scrubby willows, providing excellent cover along its entire length. Even though most of the ducks were near the east shore, we decided to try for those on the peninsula. There were very few snail shells, and a good chance at 6 ducks was better than a poor chance at 25 or 30. As things worked out, we had made the right decision, but success still was not ours.

We must have spent 45 minutes or so, flat on our backs, enjoying the morning and the opportunity to be afield. The birds worked back into marginal gun range once, but we passed on the opportunity, hoping they would come even closer. They didn't. Finally, we withdrew and tried the birds on the east shore with the expected results — they flushed wild long before we were within gun range.

A drake ruddy and his harem of eight hens bobbed calmly in midlake. We decided they would make good, live decoys. The ruddies looked on with some interest as we tossed the blocks out onto the water along the east shore.

We were just walking back to the willows when 5 ducks came in from the east, set their wings, and then flared off over the lake, settling in on the west shore a hundred yards away. Their overall brown color and white wing patches marked them as a group of gadwalls, 10-pointers like the ruddies.

Now we found ourselves in the unique position of having three spreads of decoys the blocks in front of us, the ruddies in midlake, and the gads on the far shore. Things didn't look too bad. We spent the next half hour watching the comical little ruddies crisscross the lake, first investigating our decoys and then mingling with the feeding gadwalls. I was all for taking a pair of ruddies to mount when they came in close, but that would have muffed our chance at the gadwalls. Finally, after it looked as if no other ducks were flying in the area, Bud decided to circle the lake and come in on the gads. I chose to stay in the willows and pick up a pair of ruddies if they should swim or fly in my direction.

Greg and I didn't see Bud until 30 minutes later when the gads lifted off the water. One lone shot came across the lake and one of the last gadwalls crumpled to the water's surface. The ruddies just sat there watching the whole affair as if it was being staged for their benefit. We left the pond with our one gadwall to show for the morning's efforts.

A high hill overlooking Schoolhouse Lake offered a broad view of the surface. Directly below us was the inundated marshland where I had taken the drake mallard the day before. Five mallards were flitting through the tall marsh grass now. Pampas grass in about three feet of water provided sufficient cover for a hunter coming in from the west, and there is a good chance of creeping up on them.

After 30 minutes of maneuvering I was within 75 yards or so of where the birds were when I had last seen them. The satisfied chuckles of feeding mallards suggested that they were still close to their original site.

Another slithering step and a mallard erupted from the vegetation barely 10 yards in front of me. He was a drake just getting his head color. It would have been an easy shot at that distance, but after working hard to get that close, I passed him for a chance at the group. Apparently they were not spooked by the drake's flight. Thoughts of a bird in the hand being worth 2 in the bush crossed my mind. Maybe I had blown my only chance.

It wasn't long until I got my answer. The lush green reeds literally exploded when 5 mallards shot skyward. I picked out what I thought to be another drake, just getting its color, too, and dropped him cleanly. All I could see left were hens and the way our luck had been running, I decided that a hen here was worth several drakes yet unfound. I dropped the closest one and figured my limit was filled, 20 points for the drake mallard, with the 90-point hen throwing me over the 100-point mark.

Filled it was! All 180 points of it. I found the hen with no problem but spent 15 minutes or more looking for the drake, which I never found at all. What I found instead was a second hen. That drake I thought was just getting its color turned out to be a 90-point hen. That, with the other hen mallard, gave me a total of 180 points and finished my duck hunting for the day. That mistake could have been disastrous if I had shot another duck earlier that morning —any duck, even a 10-pointer.

The episode did point up one thing though —either you shoot one duck at a time, making positive identification, or be damn sure of your target. Even an experienced hunter can make a mistake in poor light or under unusual conditions, but that is no excuse. Either you are sure of what the bird is or you pass it by. Never in recent years has the waterfowl hunter had more liberal limits than under the point system. If hunters are not concerned enough to bone up on their duck identification, then more restrictive regulations will inevitably follow.

We were headed back to Lincoln the next morning when we stumbled into just the type of situation we had been looking for all week. Ned Peabody, refuge manager at the Valentine National Wildlife Refuge, happened to mention during the course of our conversation that he knew of a lake off the refuge that might be holding a few mallards. It was right on our way so naturally we stopped for a look. A congenial landowner gave us the nod to hunt and last-minute directions on how to approach the lake, then waved us on through his ranch. We eased our way through the cattail edge that lined the pond to within 15   yards or so of a dozen mallards. Amazingly, of the 50 ducks or so that were resting on the lake only a handful of drakes were bobbing up and down and they were all in midlake, well beyond shotgun range. Not wanting to end the day as quickly as the previous one, we backed out carefully and decided to check one other lake before taking any hens.

We spotted a handful of ducks back in one narrow cove on another lake.

Since I had the waders, the duty of walking the reeds fell on my soles again. I worked my way through 20 yards of cattailchoked edge with about as much stealth as a blindfolded buffalo stumbling through a light-bulb factory, but somehow reached the lake without flushing the mallards. Unlike the solid bottom of Schoolhouse Lake, the neck was a boggy muck hole of decaying vegetation. I was up to my waist, of which only the top foot was water, the rest slimy ooze. Weaving in and out of the reeds, I reached gun range. Six mallards went up low and out of sight until they were almost out of range. I pulled on the closest one and dropped it, another hen. I was cursing myself for not getting clear shots at the drakes when Bud's double-barrel spoke twice. He was out in the rushes as far as his boots permitted, squatting down out of view. When the birds spooked, they swung north directly over him. His first shot dropped a big greenhead coming head on. By the time he swung around on the ducks, a lone hen was all that remained in range. He dropped it with his second shot filling his day's limit in short order. It was time to mosey back to Lincoln so our hunt was over.

Even though our snipe hunt had fallen through and our duck hunt had been no smashing success, it illustrated, in a backhanded sort of way, that the point system lets a hunter decide for himself how many birds he takes home. If he is selective, he can take up to 10 ducks, or 5 mallard drakes. Or, if he is less selective, he must settle for 2, or even just 1 duck in his daily bag. We had made our choice and now stood by its outcome, satisfied with the quality of our spur-of-the-moment duck hunt. THE END

Outdoor Calendar

Other areas include state recreation, wayside, and specialuse areas. Most are open year-round, and are available for camping, picnicking, swimming, boating, and horseback riding. Consult the NEBRASKAland Camping Guide for particulars.

Consult NEBRASKAland hunting and fishing guides, available from conservation officers, permit vendors, county clerks, all Game and Parks Commission offices, or by writing Game and Parks Commission, 2200 N. 33rd St., Box 30370, Lincoln, Nebraska 68503.

HOOKED ON CARP

doughballs, or anything else that is edible. They are extremely fond of mulberries and stay near shore where mulberry bushes grow to catch the berries that fall into the water.

The feeding habits of the carp leave much to be desired. That is one of the reasons why freshwater fishermen do not, as a rule, take their catch home for food. But many folks say that if prepared properly, the flesh of the carp is delicious. Essentially a bottom feeder, carp travel along the bottom of lakes or streams, suck up the mud and debris, sift it through their gills, retain the food particles, and allow the mud and debris to escape. Another reason why digging up the bottom and sucking up the mud is an undesirable feature of feeding carp is that it keeps the water roily so that aquatic plants cannot grow, which makes the water in the area unsuitable for other fish.

Carp spawn in weedy, shallow areas in the spring. If no weedy area is available, the fish come in close to shore. If the lake has a rocky shoreline, the male forces the female close against the bank so that she will release her eggs close to the rocks. The male then releases his milt at the same time.

The question is, why fish for carp? Well, in the first place, the carp has at last taken its place as a game fish. For those who like to eat fish, the carp, properly prepared, is a delicacy. The flesh is tender, sweet, and pleasing to the palate.

To get the most out of carp fishing, use light tackle. Use a spinning rod about 61/2 or 7 feet long, a spinning reel in the class of the Mitchell 300, and 6 or 8-pound-test monofilament line. For hooks, use a No. 12 treble. Make two braces out of steel rods with a Y top. Thread the line through the guides and through a 2-ounce dipsey sinker. Attach a No. 7 split shot about 10 inches above the hook but below the dipsey, then attach the bait. Dough bait should be no longer than a robin's egg and about the same shape.

Cast out. When the bait settles, close the bail and rest the rod on the braces, but do not leave it unattended. Keep your eye on the reel at all times. A carp is difficult to catch. If the fish likes the bait, it will suck around it for a while and then take it into its mouth. It will then take off and the handle of your reel will spin. The drag should not be set, allowing the line to run free. If you are not there, the fish will take out all the line on the reel, and when the spool is bared, the fish will drag rod, reel, and everything else right into the water.

The basic thing to remember is that the carp will drop the bait at the first sign of resistance. If your line goes through the ring of the dipsey with the split shot ahead of it so that the bait runs free, your chances of hooking the carp are good. A treble hook having three barbs stands a good chance of embedding itself into the carp's thick rubbery lips.

When the carp takes off, lift the rod gently from the braces and allow all slack to straighten out. Then strike once, and once again to firmly set the hook. Make no attempt to "horse" the fish. If it is a large one, it will head for the farthest shore, so let him run awhile. Don't try to reel the fish in while it is going in the opposite direction. When the fish turns, tighten the drag slightly and start reeling. If it starts out again let him go. The carp is one of the strongest swimmers and never gives up. For fighting qualities, it takes its place among the best. When the carp comes near shore it goes wild, and this is the time when extreme care is necessary to land the fish. Keep the drag light so that the fish may move around. If you tighten the drag, the fish will break the line.

It is very difficult to subdue the carp. Play it out until it is time for the net. The carp fights to the end and netting is quite a job, but with a little patience it can be done. Some anglers use a large dip net having a diameter of 20 or 24 inches, but a gaff is better. If you intend to keep the fish, gaff it through the mouth, bring it ashore, and put it on a stringer. It is recommended to use a steel stringer having large clips which resemble big safety pins. Run the clip through the carp's mouth.

Carp kept on such a stringer will live if allowed to remain in the water and will stay fresh until you are through fishing, so never allow fish to remain out of the water after being caught. Fish spoil rapidly, especially in the summer. If you do not have a cooler, keep your fish on a stringer in the water until it is time to depart.

Anglers across the country spend a considerable amount of time studying new ways to catch fish, and Nebraska anglers are no different. You miss out on some fine sport if you don't try fishing for carp with a fly rod.

One need not be an expert with the fly rod. Any angler with a little patience can soon become adept in its use. The rod should be 8 or 9 feet long with 2 or 3 sections—glass or bamboo. A single-action fly reel is preferable, and a floating size D level fly line (without dressing) with a 5-foot leader is sufficient.

The reel should be mounted on the rod just as for fly casting. Thread the line through the guides and the tip top. Attach the leader to the end of the line. Run the leader through the eye of a very small dipsey sinker, place a BB shot ahead of the dipsey and attach a No. 10 or 12 treble hook to the end of the line. The terminal tackle set up this way allows the line to run free through the sinker without the fish feeling its weight.

Shape the doughball around the treble hook to the size of a robin's egg. You will not fly cast now, but will strip cast, you hold the rod vertically, draw off a few feet of line and pull the leader up to the tip top, bring the rod back holding the line with the left hand, and then swing it forward allowing the line to flow through the guides out onto the water.

Fishing for carp with the fly rod is usually done from the bank, or a few feet from the bank if you can step into the water. Keep the line slack until you get a strike. Hold the rod in your right hand and the line in your left so that you can give or retrieve line while fighting the fish. Fighting a carp on the fly rod can be compared with fighting a large smallmouth bass, only much more exciting, and it takes longer to subdue a carp on a fly rod than it would to subdue a bass with the same equipment.

Here is a recipe for doughballs for carp. You will need a fairly deep saucepan, one teaspoon, one tablespoon, and a teacup. Ingredients are yellow cornmeal, vanillin (synthetic vanilla), corn starch, sugar, honey, and syrup.

Pour a teacupful of water, a tablespoonful of syrup, and a teaspoonful of vanillin in the saucepan. Put the saucepan on the stove, then start stirring and lower the heat while stirring. Put in one teaspoonful of corn starch. When the corn starch is dissolved, pour one full cup of yellow cornmeal slowly into the mixture and keep stirring until the spoon resists and all the water is absorbed. Mix well like any batter and set aside to cool. Do not place this mixture in the refrigerator. When the mixture is cool, wrap it in a clean, damp cloth and put the bait into any cardboard or plastic container. This batch should last a full day of fishing. Yellow cornmeal works   best for carp. The bait must be such that the carp mistakes it for fish eggs, one of its staple food items.

Some anglers use honey instead of syrup, some use garlic salt instead of vanillin. Some color their bait with vegetable dye. Carp rely mostly on their sense of taste, so the use of aromatics is unnecessary.

Armed with proper equipment, knowledge of the best techniques, and wellprepared bait, you are in for some exciting sport. You, too, will be hooked on carp fishing after you try it. THE END

PONCA CURES

styptic wash to stop hemorrhage after childbirth. Women drank a liquid formed by boiling the inner bark of burning bush for uterine trouble.

The Ponca had a Seltzer substitute —they had two in fact. One was calamus. Wild mint, too, was used as a carminative by steeping and sweetening it.

The fresh inner bark of slippery elm provided a laxative when boiled. In severe constipation cases, the dried bark of the Kentucky coffee tree's root was pulverized and mixed with water for use as a rectal injection. The Indians made their own syringes using animal bladders for the bulbs and hollow, cylindrical bones as tubes. The bulbs were attached with sinew wrapping. When the bark was put into the water, its action was carefully noted. If the powder started to circle to the right and gradually mixed, it was a good omen for the patient's recovery. If it settled quietly to the bottom it was a sign of impending death.

The pulverized bark of the coffee tree root, if inhaled, causes uncontrollable sneezing. The Ponca, as a result, used it as a stimulant when a person seemed near death, as in a coma. If, on application of the powder to the nostrils, the patient did not sneeze, it was thought there was no hope for recovery.

The root of a wild dock was used as a diarrhea remedy; so was a decoction from the bark of chokecherry. Dried fruit, finely pulverized and infused in hot water, also served the purpose.

Calamus, the all-purpose medicine, was used for colic. An infusion was made of the pounded rootstock. Cow parsnip roots were boiled and the decoction taken for intestinal pains and as a physic. The root of the tall milkweed was eaten raw for stomach trouble and fluids taken from ground cherry and wild sage were taken for the same ailment.

A decoction of black currant roots was supposed to cure kidney trouble, and a similar fluid made from smooth sumac was used to combat urine retention.

Granny's old-fashioned rheumatism medicine had its counterparts among the Indians. Some of their cures even competed with hers as the most drastic. While the pasqueflower was considered dangerous if taken internally, the crushed leaves were applied externally to cause a blister which was expected to serve as a counter-irritant to the rheumatism. False lupine was burned under the affected part of the body. Smoke and heat were held with a close covering for best results.

Leadplant was another rheumatism cure. The Indians called it buffalo bellow plant, as it blooms when the buffalo are in rut. Leadplant was considered female by the Ponca, while rabbit's foot was the male buffalo bellow plant. The steams of both were used as moxa. Small stems were broken in pieces and attached to the skin by moistening one end with the tongue, then fired and allowed to burn down to the skin.

Cup plant roots were used in a smoke treatment for neuralgia and rheumatism and a decoction of the rootstock was used as an emetic to cause vomiting in preparatory cleansing before the buffalo hunts.

Tops of cow parsnip were used in a smoke treatment for fainting and convulsions while the root of the gentian made a decoction that was taken as a tonic. The Ponca ate butterfly weed raw for bronchial or pulmonary trouble. They chewed it and placed it in wounds, or dried and pulverized it and blew it into the openings. It was also a remedy for old, obstinate sores. Since it had so many healing qualities, there were complicated ceremonials connected with digging, preparation, consecration, and distribution. The ceremonials took four days, and only members of the Shell Society were permitted to perform them.

Sticky head was used in a liquid for consumption, or tuberculosis. Burdock root was used as a pleurisy fighter.

A variety of things were used to "get the red out" of sore eyes, and the pain out of sore ears. Blue flag rootstock was pulverized and mixed with saliva for ear drops and medicinal eye water. Windflower, too, was used to make eye wash, as was wild rose. Wild licorice leaves were steeped and applied to the ears. Coralberry leaves were steeped for an infusion for weak or inflamed eyes, as were skeleton weed stems.

For toothache there was wild licorice, chewed and held in the mouth.

The purple coneflower provided numerous cures. It was believed to be an antidote for snakebite and other venomous bites and stings. It was used in a smoke treatment for headache, and for distemper in horses. A piece of the root could be held on a painful tooth until the pain disappeared, and a decoction relieved enlarged salivary glands resulting from mumps. Burns were bathed in its juice to kill pain.

The ultimate panacea was probably the wild gourd-human being medicine, as it was called by the Ponca. The root was used according to the doctrine of signatures. The root was shaped like the human body, the Ponca thought. Roots were even thought to be male and female. A portion of the root corresponding to its position in the human body was used to cure whatever discomfort might be suffered in that area. The plant was considered to possess mystic properties. Unauthorized digging was not permitted, for if the root was wounded, disaster followed. Proper authorities dug the roots only after tobacco offering and prayer to the plant spirit.

For wounds, there were dozens of dressings, poultices, and other cures. Cattail down was used for burn and scald dressing. Wild four-o'clock was chewed and blown into wounds. The roots of sweet cicely were pounded to make poultices for boils and wounds, and prairie ground cherry was used as a dressing. Bunches of plantain leaves were heated and applied to draw thorns or splinters. Smooth sumac leaves were applied wet in cases of skin poisoning, as in poison ivy. Stems and leaves of wild touch-me-not were crushed together into a pulp and applied to the skin to relieve rash and eczema. Veterinary medicine was also a part of Ponca lore.

But perhaps the most popular of the medicine man's potions were his love charms. What Ponca lad could resist being irresistible to the lady of his dreams? The meadow rue was one of the simplest potions. The young man was instructed to rub the tops of the plant with saliva in his palms, and then shake hands with the maiden he desired.

If the meadow rue proved ineffective, he had plenty of alternatives. The seeds of wild columbine were expected to turn any young lady's head.

If the lover was still without success, he could try bloodroot, called woman-seeking medicine by the Ponca. Again, he was instructed to rub the plant, this time the root, in his palm and shake hands with the girl. In five or six days she would be ready towed.

By this time, however, the girl might be somewhat suspicious about the young man's constant efforts to shake hands with her. So he was forced to move ahead to the ultimate —ginseng. This was combined with honeysuckle, cardinal flower, Cogswellia daucifolium (a member of the parsley family), a hair from the girl's head, and redearth paint to form the desired potion. Mere possession of this strong aphrodisiac rendered the girl helpless before her suitor's charms.

But if the ultimate were to fail, there was one more potion available for the young swain. The long-fruited anemone was practically guaranteed to give him luck in cardplaying. All he had to do was rub his hands in the smoke of the burning fruits... THE END

WHITE-WATER WIPEOUT

a wheelchair was brought out for Dudley. As she rolled him in, the head nurse asked his name.

"I'm Dudley Osborn," he replied quietly.

"I'm the chief of boating activities for the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission." "What happened to your leg?" the nurse asked.

"We had a boating accident on the Snake," was Dudley's regretful answer.

Just about that time, Jim entered the reception area, suffering from shock.

"I'm Jim Nelson, Midwest Regional Boating Safety Co-ordinator for the American National Red Cross," he said.

"You were in the same accident?" the nurse exclaimed.

Then Ted came forward for examination of the wound in his side. It became a hilarious laughing matter when he introduced himself as the Director of Public Health and Safety for the State of Nebraska Health Department.

Later, results of X-rays on Dudley's leg were gratefully accepted by everyone —the leg was not broken, just severely bruised. Jim was treated for shock with mild tranquilizers and Ted's bruise was examined. Leon was tired as a result of it all. They were released from the hospital a short while later. A hot meal and several cups of coffee restored their spirits. Then it was back to Lincoln.

Lou reported afterward that it took a 1 50-foot rope, a jeep equipped with a winch, and 3 men to free canoe No. I from the current, seemingly determined to hold its catch forever.

Inquiries about traversing that portion of the Snake River from below the falls to its confluence with the Niobrara kept coming to the Game Commission. Hobbling around with a cane for awhile, Dudley answered the requests like this:

"That particular portion of the Snake River is extraordinarily dangerous, and I advise against even experts canoeing that stretch of Nebraska waterway."

Lou, even though he got no photographs to record this comedy on film, is still grinning. THE END

HOUSE OF BROWNVILLE

great civic gesture, but they do get full. The volunteers felt the town should empty them and the town thought the fire department should empty them, so the historical society ended up emptying them. There is apathy within even that organization, though. John Rippey called a cleanup meeting—two people showed up. John Rippey called another cleanup meeting —one person showed up.

The clerk at the Brownville Mill beamed with pride as she told how the whole town pulls together to clean it up (she lives in Nemaha).

Confronted with that information, Rippey found it amusing.

"The town board is completely volunteer, and all of those on the board work. Whatever effort goes into the community, whether it is mowing weeds along the roads and this sort of thing, is done when the men get home from work or on their free time. It isn't a paid type of thing," Rippey explained.

If the House of Brownville is divided on the issue of who should do what, and how and when, it is split wide open on the subject of the town's biggest celebration. Mrs. J. Randel M. Smith, whose husband was president of the historical society at the time, initiated the Oldtime Fiddlers and Country Music Contest. Almost from the start, the festival was a success, drawing thousands of spectators from all parts of the country. Then it hit a snag. Nebraska's Department of Roads wasn't enamored enough with the event to continue allowing it to be held on its roadway as had been done at first. The contest was moved to the park, and objections began to flow from the townspeople. So much so, that battle lines seem drawn between the town board and the historical society, which still sponsors the event. Is it a major stumbling block to co-operation between the two?

"Yes, it is," Mrs. Miner affirmed. "Their flea market is well conducted. Everything else they have is well conducted, but the Old Fiddlers has certainly gotten out of hand."

"We had full police protection last year," Rippey countered. We had no trouble last year whatsoever. We haven't had any trouble any of the years. Last year is the first time we've had police protection."

"And that was at the request of the town board," Mrs. Miner broke in.

"That is correct, but neither have we had any trouble. We've never had to call the police for anything. There was a knifing down here two years ago [involving alleged drug traffic] the night before it opened and the police were called," the society president offered, "but that was the night before the Old Fiddlers contest and the men [involved] were not part of the Old Fiddlers whatsoever.

"But they wouldn't have been here if it hadn't been for the Old Fiddlers."

"Well, they might have come down for another thing at another time. Who knows? Maybe they just picked Brownville; they could have gone to any community as far as that is concerned," Rippey theorized.

The Old Fiddlers contest fits into most things in the community one way or another. For instance, some townspeople, apparently feel the historical society, a nonprofit organization, should pay taxes. Rippey figures that if it did, the town's income from society property would be around $500. The contest has netted more than five times that and the money, directly or indirectly, goes back into the community.

"I'm very fond of the Old Fiddlers contest. I have more fun at that contest. I enjoy country music very much, and I enjoy meeting the people, talking to them, and listening to their music. And, it, to me, is the most fun festival we have. It has also been our biggest money maker. Two years ago, we took in $4,000 which went back into the museum and various other facilities that we have. Last year, we netted about $2,000. Our only source of income is from the flea market, the Old Fiddlers contest, and the tour of homes plus our memberships. So, you always hate to drop something that is a good income. And, the key to the problem of Brownville is money."

Old Fiddlers, then, is Rippey's springboard to putting Brownville back on its feet. But how?

"You know, one dreams, and of course I would like to see the day when [the town] was cleaned up, the trash piles eliminated, the mowing done, and a clean-looking community [made of it]. Of course, our main effort at the moment is working on the museum and the Carson House as far as restoration and preservation are concerned. And, we would like to get another old house to fix up for our museum purposes because we've got so much in storage that we could fill one. I would like to see the old homes restored and not torn down, and Brownville really made into a pleasant community. I would like to see more of the cultural activities. I would like to see more businesses in town. Like the whole block downtown which we own. We'll lease the ground to anybody who wants to build as long as they pass our board as far as architecture is concerned, and put in shops and woodworkers or silversmiths, or more antique shops. If we had a dozen antique shops in town, people would drive a hundred miles to come and shop all of us. I would like to see a motel, either just on the other side of the river or, if it were well designed, within an area where we could get people to stay over. We need it badly. There are some people who come down to see their kids in the theater [summer theater operated by Nebraska Wesleyan University], and they will come on a weekend when they can see all five plays.Well, they stay in Auburn and commute, or they stay in Rock Port, Missouri, and commute. It would be much better if they could stay here. It would bring more business into our community, and we need more businesses, even if they are just six-month deals. It would help our total community; it would help our tax base —probably raise it. We need more permanent families to move into the community and we need to get these hills blossoming with some more houses. We have our summer theater and this year we're having the summer music workshops and the school [the Brownville School of Arts]. I would like someday to see, and we've worked diligently for the last year on it, a new amphitheater. We have a great place for it, but the board [12-member historical society board] feels that if we take it 1% miles out of town, the people won't go there. Well, I think the people will go where the action is."

Mrs. Miner agreed such plans would help her community, and then explained the town board's efforts.

"We worked diligently to get a motel and an eating place in here. We spent a lot of time and we got no place for the reason that the man who owned the property held the buyers up and then couldn't give them a clear title. And we spent many hours and the town board did try to do that for the village of Brownville and by golly we got no place. We wasted our time, really, and those people's time. They spent many hours here from Nebraska City, and they had the finances to do it with, but it fell through. So, you get kind of discouraged."

The town board seems to have found a sort of left-handed glory in another area, though.

"Brownville is certainly trying to improve themselves," Mrs. Miner continued. "We have water here now which we didn't have and we have a sewer, and the grants have all been through the request of our town board. No one else has requested them. The sewer system will cost about $182,000, and we intend to start the last of August. That should help our town. That [the lack of sewers] has been a drawback."

Sewers are seldom major points of interest in any town, though, and Brownville surely will find theirs less than mobbed.

In looks and offerings, Brownville is sadly lacking. Among the townspeople, it seems to be every man for himself and the devil take the hindmost when it comes to even sprucing up their own property. The town has dwindled from a population of several thousand in the early years to its present 170. Seemingly, the decrease took with it a lion's share of civic pride, and stopgap measures by the town board and the historical society just can't cope with the downward trend. Viewed critically, it seems that most of the major improvements and attractions are supported from outside the community. A Lincoln university is the spark behind the Village Theatre. And, outsiders own the major restored homes. The oldest home in Brownville is owned by residents, though, and it is easy to find. It is outstanding for its lack of paint, rumpled yard, and crudely lettered sign propped up against the front porch.

That's Brownville, carved from a period of don't-have-a-thing to live its last years in a period of don't-give-a-damn.

Man-on-the-street opinions of Brownville are hard to find. For one thing, there are few men on the street. But, there is one who has some interesting observations.

McKinley Kelley is 75 years old and was born and raised in Brownville. He is retired now, but once farmed a large portion of what is the present townsite. He also spent many of his years on the river, first as a commercial fisherman and later as an employee of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers.

"If it wasn't for the historical society, all this would have been just brush long ago,"

Kelley estimated, a sweeping gesture, taking in a good share of downtown. "The people don't seem to be against the historical society, but the town board is. I don't know why, but there was some trouble with the fiddlers contest a couple of years ago. People were racing up and down the street and there were a lot of complaints. The town board told the historical society that they couldn't hold the contest in town anymore. Then they came around and said it would be all right if police were hired. Last year there wasn't any trouble, but this year they say they'll be in the state park [the Brownville State Recreation Area] along the river."

Kelley remembers when his town had 3,000 residents and when there was plenty of activity. Both are pretty well gone now.

"The missus belongs to the historical society and does some things for them, but I don't get involved. I can remember when the flea market had things lined up on both sides of the street," he leaned back on a hand tiller, a grin splitting several days' growth of stubble. "I'm not much interested, though. Some of the townsfolk are against having people coming in all summer. A lot of them [the visitors] are riff-raff, you know. But we get some fine folks, too."

McKinley Kelley has seen a lot of past in Brownville, but he isn't so sure about the future.

"I can't say what will happen to Brownville in the next 20 to 25 years, but there's nothing here now. The town doesn't have a payroll. If it did, things would be a lot better. The plant [the Cooper Nuclear Power Station now under construction] has helped, and the packing plant across the river has, too."

Rippey doesn't feel the power plant will have much, if any, effect on the town. He cites the facts that there is no doctor in Brownville, no high school, and no resident law enforcement as reasons why plant personnel do not move into the town. Auburn, he feels, will find the greatest benefit from the payroll. That leaves tourism as the best bet for boosting the town's economy, and it will take a total commitment from everyone just to derive the smallest benefit. That's where the rest of Nebraska comes in.

Several of the old homes have been purchased by non-residents from Omaha, Fremont, Grand Island, and Iowa. Rippey, a former Omahan who has lived in Brownville 10 years, has restored and lives in the Gates House, the town's oldest brick structure built in 1859. Mrs. Harold D. LeMar of Omaha owns the restored Muir House. Eaton's View was restored by Reverend and Mrs. Mark McCallum of Omaha. Fremont's Dr. Harold Smith has restored the Cyrus Pollack home built in 1871. There are

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"The wife and I always wanted a family room"

  others, but the story is much the same. They buy the homes and call them theirs, which is fine. But the historic value is garnered by only a select few since they are under no obligation to share their homes —lived in or not —with the public. Occasionally, one or two find their way into the tour of homes, but only for short periods before being withdrawn. And, the only benefit Brownville derives is the tax money. That is plenty, though, and perhaps more nonresidents must become involved to ward off the town's demise.

Outsiders cannot be expected to bear the whole load, though. The townspeople must do something themselves. Something, that is, besides doing nothing and neglecting yards, letting last decade's car rust away right in front of everybody, and letting trash fall and stay where it may. Maybe it is time for the people of Nebraska to lend a hand. Brownville belongs to all of us, and it is our job to keep it up. Tax supported? No! People supported! Brownville has a lot of past, not much present, and no future unless petty bickering is put aside, the "let-John-do-it" attitude is shelved, and communal efforts and time are leveled against community lassitude. THE END

PREDATOR CONTROL

opportunity. These values are important. People enjoy being able to see and hear or photograph a wild creature in its natural environment. They also value the privilege to hunt and trap wild predators.

Studies have shown that the control of predators usually will not noticeably increase populations of game species. It is important to qualify the word "control" when used in this statement. Does control mean complete extirpation of all predatory animals, or only certain species, or of only individuals of certain species? Or, does control mean a moderate reduction of numbers of all species, or certain species, or of individuals of all or certain species.

At the head of the list of arguments favoring predator control is one that involves man's interests, particularly damage to livestock and poultry. A variety of control techniques has been made available over the past several years for use in killing predators that are causing a monetary loss to farmers, ranchers, and poultry men. It is not always practical nor economically possible to use preventive measures instead of predator control to alleviate this loss. Some people feel the best way to reduce predator damage is to decrease or eliminate the total predator population in the general area of the damage. However, it has been proven that the damage can often be stopped by killing the particular individual that is causing the trouble.

Studies have shown that in some excep tional cases game populations can be increased by controlling predators. This greatly depends on the amount and intensity of control, and on what kinds and numbers of predators are taken. Control for this purpose is rarely feasible from the economic viewpoint.

Control is believed to be a necessity when certain predatory animals are carrying disease harmful to man. One of the most feared diseases of this type is rabies. Scientific proof of benefit from control programs is generally lacking. This is especially true when control is initiated after a rabies outbreak begins.

Controversy over past, present, and future predator control programs is spread essentially over the entire United States. Controversy also exists in Nebraska. The primary problems seem to involve how much control is needed, the types of control techniques that have been used or are being used and the economic feasibility of such a program, since taxpayers' money is involved. Many groups and individuals interested primarily in wildlife protection, including some ranchers and farmers, claim that the program is taking into account only one side of the issue, that being a protective subsidy of livestock and agricultural interests.

Several variations of predator control techniques and programs have been used in Nebraska over the past years. One of the most noted was the bounty payment system which was in effect for over 30 years in various counties. This program proved to be very expensive and ineffective as a control technique.

Until recently the Bureau of Sport Fisheries and Wildlife has had a variety of tools, particularly poisons, to accomplish its control work. Some of these tools included 1080 (sodium monofluoroacetate), strychnine, "coyote getters" (calcium cyanide), and steel traps, plus the practices of shooting and den hunting. For the past several years in Nebraska, most of the predator-control effort has been placed on the coyote and the prairie dog, which is actually a rodent, not a predator. Sodium monofluoroacetate was the most commonly used poison during this period.

On February 8, 1972, President Nixon signed an executive order that in essence prohibited the field use of chemical toxicants (poisons) on any federal lands or in any federal program of mammal or bird damage control, except in defined emergency situations with the proper authorization. The order prohibits the field use of any chemical toxicant which could cause secondary poisoning. These restrictions are placed only on the use of chemical toxicants on federal lands and in the federal predator and rodent-control programs. As a result of this order, federal animal damagecontrol agents can no longer use chemical toxicants in their work, unless the use is in accord with one of the exceptions mentioned above. The president's action was at least partially the result of a recent special report to the Council on Environmental Quality and the Department of the Interior from an advisory committee on predator control. The committee was formed of seven men, noted authorities in the field of wildlife and natural resource conservation. The committee made a very extensive and thorough collection of all available data, and contacted hundreds of individuals for opinions and information.

It is evident from the advisory committee's report and other scientific studies, as well as from public reactions and feelings on predator control, that a sound ecological base and understanding must be established before we can proceed to alleviate the predator controversy. The situation has to be examined realistically and as unemotionally as possible.

A sound ecological base must involve the ecosystem, which is the inter-related community of animals, plants, and the physical and chemical environment. There is a seemingly endless mesh of self-adjusting mechanisms and compensations in the ecosystem. Usually such natural controls are effective in confining species' fluctuations within extremes of extinction on the one hand and overpopulation on the other. The ecosystem works toward the survival of all of its components. However, man's activities or his domestic animals often disturb the balanced ecosystem. For example, sheep and cattle may overgraze the vegetation which may produce desirable conditions for a buildup of rodents. Although the rodents may appear to be the

OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland of the Air

cause of the reduction in vegetation, they are actually the result In the eyes of many people, the rodents are harmful and they are then controlled. If there is adequate control, then a predator like the coyote, for example, whose primary food source was the rodents, may have to find another primary food item. This other item may be one of man's domestic animals. When the coyote takes such an animal, then he must be controlled. To be sure, coyote control is essential in some places and at some times. But possible predator control would not always be needed if conditions were not made ideal for overpopulations of rodents and rabbits. In essence, economic losses to predators are very obvious; benefits from them are very obscure but, nonetheless, just as real.

Biologically speaking, predators must be managed, not controlled or exterminated, to realize benefits from them while avoiding excessive damage by them. It is important to understand that management is not synonymous with absolute protection. Good management can be defined as making wise use of the wildlife resource. It has to be recognized that predators have a harvestable surplus just as pheasants and deer.

Since it appears that some kind of predator control will still be needed in Nebraska, at least in the immediate future, numerous questions must be considered and answered: (1) Which control techniques should be used or not used so that a practical, effective, economical, and environmentally safe program can be developed? (2) Who should administer the program and who should do the actual control work? (3) How should a predator-control program be financed? and (4) What are the actual ecological problems associated with predators? Some of the ecological problems that should be considered include: (1) Determination with all possible accuracy the actual livestock or poultry losses caused by predators. Such information would more clearly identify the causes of economic damage and would help to alleviate excessive losses; (2) More investigation of the positive values of predators in both natural and managed environments; and (3) Study the direct effects of control on predators as well as what happens to non-target species which are innocent bystanders.

Today's predators are small, or generally timid and shy before man, at least far from being dangerous. They would probably be most happy if we would just go away and leave them alone. But, of course, we are not going away, and we are not going to leave them alone —not as long as some of them beat us to another creature we wanted for ourselves. We are going to kill the predators that are killing our stock or poultry — that's natural. However, when another animal of the same species is not damaging our interests or does not constitute a surplus that can be taken by hunting, the best thing that might be done is to let them alone so they can work for us. THE END

A Hurry-Up Patent. The United States Patent Office has jumped on the environmental bandwagon by giving toppriority attention to anti-pollution device patents. Processing time can be cut from three years to six months if the applicant submits a written explanation of how his invention can maintain or restore one of the lifesustaining elements of air, water, or soil. Perhaps this move by the U.S. Patent Office will encourage others to re-evaluate the nation's most pressing problems. — Washington, D.C.

It's My Deer. A shot rang out and a jubilant hunter cried to his partner, "I got him!" As the two men approached the fallen deer, though, a woman emerged from the brush and claimed the animal. "Your deer?" exclaimed the man. "I just killed it."

"Maybe so," came her reply, "but my tag's on it."

"If your tag is on it, you can have it," responded the unbelieving man. The trio walked up to the deer, and sure enough, the lady's tag was on it. She had shot and dropped the animal, she explained, but when she was tagging it, it got up and ran off. True to his word, the disappointed man watched as the woman hunter left the woods with her twice-shot deer.-Washington, D.C.

Phantom Shot. A New York hunter instinctively followed a partridge's flight with his rifle. It had flushed near his deer stand in the snowy twilight. Just atthe point when he would have pulled the trigger, had he had a shotgun, a funny thing happened. The bird dropped. It had hit a telephone wire and had broken its neck. — New York

The Depths of Despair. The John Elliott Pillsbury oceanography expedition recently set a world depth record for collecting a vertebrate from the sea when the scientific trawl brought up a rare Bassogigas from a depth of five miles in the Puerto Rico Trench. However, along with the rare scientific find, the trawl also dredged up a variety of beer cans, paint cans, fruit juice cans, clinkers from steamship boilers, empty bottles, and last but not least, flashlight batteries. — Washington, D.C.

A Case of Good Logic. In a recent interview with an outdoor writer, an ex-big-game guide, now a fishing guide on Colorado's western slopes, was asked why he switched from guiding hunters to guiding fishermen.

"Well," replied the old gentleman, "there ain't been none of those fishermen mistook me for a fish yet!" — Colorado

Wrong Way Split. In Colorado recently, a man was fined $10 for fishing without a permit. During the trial, the accused made no attempt to hide his scorn for the judge and conservation officer. So, as he paid the $10, he handed the judge two fives and said, "Here, take these. They'll be easier to split."

As he turned to leave, the judge called him back. "Young man," the judge said dryly, "I'm changing that sentence to 10 days in jail. Now tell us how we can split that!"-Colorado

Grand Slam. A Duluth, Minnesota, woman set several records in a fishing contest when she won $75 and all the prizes for the largest, smallest, and most fish. Her perch was the only one caught. How about that? -Minnesota

Polluted Pigeons. Everybody has heard about polluted water and air, but how about polluted pigeons? When pigeons became a population problem in Philadelphia, city officials couldn't decide what to do. Then, an idea was born. The officials soaked wheat grain in 190-proof alcohol. The grain was then sprinkled around for the pigeons, and as suspected, the greedy winged fellows made pigs of themselves as they gobbled up the wheat. Soon the birds toppled to the ground, too soused to fly. When they hit the turf, city employees were on hand to tote them away. — Pennsylvania