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into the steel, slipped the forearm into its place, and put the Twenty-one away. T he following summer Kathy and I met at the headwaters of the Clark's Fork of the Yellowstone with our families to spread the old man's ashes on the water. We figured the river knew where he should rest better than we did. When we got back to camp I took out the Twenty-one and showed Kath the print. Soon after, the gun went on to California. There are moments in human affairs when craft rises to the level of art. In the 1930s the craftsmen who built the Twenty- one blurred the distinction between the two, combining flawless function and durability with grace and undeniable beauty. It's a monument to the idea that, if something is worth doing, it's worth doing well. The old man shared that view. Over his lifetime he gathered more than the usual quota of friends. He was an excellent field companion, a gifted storyteller, and rock- solid in a pinch. He was loved and admired for all those reasons and for something more. He reminded us that, done well, living itself is an art worthy of our most concentrated efforts. As far as I know, he never wavered in that conviction, and even in his last days, he gave it his best. It seems right that the Twenty-one will always carry his mark—an owner who appreciated the little side-by-side for what it was and, even more, for where it led. n Editor's Note: The "old man" in this article was writer John Madson. He grew up during the Depression, the son of a barber in Ames, Iowa. After 35 bombing missions over Germany in World War II, he took a bachelor's degree in fisheries from Iowa State University before beginning a career in journalism with the Iowa Department of Conservation and the Des Moines Register. In 1958 he hired on with Winchester Arms, where he wrote several popular monographs on game animals in North America and hundreds of pieces on conservation. He was also a prolific freelancer, contributing articles to the old True magazine, National Geographic, Outdoor Life, Audubon, Smithsonian, and many others. In addition to the game monographs, he wrote six books. Where the Sky Began, his paean to the tall-grass prairie, won critical acclaim and, along with Out Home and Up On the River, is still in print, more than 30 years after it was first published. An accomplished speaker and storyteller, he was also a matchless field companion, as scores of people who hunted and fished with him still attest 22 years after his death. Once hailed as America's dean of outdoor writers, John Madson shot a mixed bag of ducks and geese on this South Dakota wetland in the mid-1960s. He was hunting with Frank Heidelbauer, an avid supporter of Ducks Unlimited and the founder of Heidelbauer Wildfowl Calls. S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S • 163