cleaned, in a cool sheltered spot, because they had to be carried home
for me to see; and lo! a little bear came down in the night and ate the
fish, in addition to licking the fat all off the frying-pan.

Then, like a bolt from the blue, came the fateful telegram from
Washington, D.C.--labor difficulties in construction-work at Camp
Lewis--would he report there at once as Government Mediator. Oh! the
Book, the Book--the Book that was to be finished without fail before the
new work at the University of Washington began! Perhaps he would be back
in a week! Surely he would be back in a week! So he packed just enough
for a week, and off he went. One week! When, after four weeks, there
was still no let up in his mediation duties,--in fact they increased,--I
packed up the family and we left for Seattle. I had rewound his
fishing-rod with orange silk, and had revarnished it, as a surprise for
his home-coming to Castle Crags. He never fished with it again.

How that man loved fishing! How he loved every sport, for that matter.
And he loved them with the same thoroughness and allegiance that he gave
to any cause near his heart. Baseball--he played on his high-school team
(also he could recite "Casey at the Bat" with a gusto that many a friend
of the earlier days will remember. And here I am reminded of his
"Christopher Columnibus." I recently ran across a postcard a college
mate sent Carl from Italy years ago, with a picture of a statue of
Columbus on it. On the reverse side the friend had written, quoting from
Carl's monologue: "'Boom Joe!' says the king; which is being
interpreted, 'I see you first.' 'Wheat cakes,' says Chris, which is the
Egyptian for 'Boom Joe'"). He loved football, track,--he won three gold
medals broad-jumping,--canoeing, swimming, billiards,--he won a loving
cup at that, tennis, ice-skating, hand-ball; and yes, ye of finer
calibre, quiver if you will--he loved a prize-fight and played a mighty