It seems to be natural for the minds of men who live in America in the haunts of big game to drift into the idea that the wild game around them is all theirs.  Very few of them recognize the fact that every other man, woman and child in a given state or province has vested rights in its wild game.  It is natural for a frontiersman to feel that because he is in the wilds he has a God-given right to live off the country; but to-day that idea is totally wrong!  If some way can not be found to curb that all-pervading propensity among our frontiersmen, then we may as well bid all our open-field big game a long farewell; for the deadly “residents” surely will exterminate it, outside the game preserves.  The “residents” are, in my opinion, about ten times more destructive than the sportsmen.  A sportsman in quest of large game is in the field only from ten to thirty days; all his movements are known, and all his trophies are seen and counted.  His killing is limited by law, and upon him the law is actually enforced.  Often a resident hunts the whole twelve months of the year,—­for food, for amusement, and for trophies to sell.  Rarely does a game warden reach his cabin; because the wardens are few, the distances great and the frontier cabins are widely scattered.

Mr. Carl Pickhardt told me of a guide in Newfoundland who had a shed in the woods hanging full of bodies of caribou, and who admitted to him that while the law allowed him five caribou each year, he killed each year about twenty-five.

Mr. J.M.  Phillips knows of a mountain in British Columbia, once well stocked with goats, on which the goats have been completely exterminated by one man who lives within easy striking distance of them, and who finds goat meat to his liking.

I have been reliably informed that in 1911, at Haha Lake, near Grande Bay, Saguenay District, P.Q., one family of six persons killed thirty-four woodland caribou and six moose.  This meant the waste of about 14,000 pounds of good meat, and the death of several female animals.

In 1886 I knew a man named Owens who lived on the head of Sunday Creek, Montana, who told me that in 1884-5 he killed thirty-five mule deer for himself and family.  The family ate as much as possible, the dogs ate all they could, and in the spring the remainder spoiled.  Now there is not a deer, an antelope, or a sage grouse within fifty miles of that lifeless waste.

Here is a Montana object lesson on the frame of mind of the “resident” hunter, copied from Outdoor Life Magazine (Denver) for February, 1912.  It is from a letter to the Editor, written by C.B.  Davis.