If you can hear this call, down the avenues of time; if you can smell the dank forest incense and your hand itches to draw a cloth yard shaft across a sturdy bow,then you are one of the immortals. In you we have the heart of a true archer. To you, I hereby bequeath all the yew trees of this good green earth, that bow staves may be ever yours, I bequeath all stiff wood for arrow shafts and keen steel heads to fit.Flax and feathers are yours by right of heritage and I leave you, so long as you draw a bow string, all this world of forest and open fields for your delight, and all the wild life therein. And I leave you the sun by day and the moon and stars by night, and the gentle breeze that blows the fragrance of flower and tree and dust to your nostrils. The long delicious trails and mountain paths are yours.The ecstasy of cool running streams I give you freely when athirst, and last of all I leave to you the thrill of life and the joy of youth that throbs a moment in a well bent bow, then leaps forth in the flight of an arrow.
Saxton Pope.
Saxton Pope.
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