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And here is my attempt of an English translation:

Schiesswesen Bd.. 3 (1900), Nr. 9, S. 69-71
Albert Preuss
The Old Caliber

Throwing a brief, fleeting glance at the table, we will be touched almost painfully of what has become of the blessed caliber 24, known to almost all of us. Modestly, with large numbers (???) the faithful hunting companion of our young days is looking at us, and chastely, but reproachfully she speaks to us: “Is this your thanks for all the fine hours that I awarded to your young days? Have I ever strived for the fame to be the first in a table plastered with modern spirit? It is sacrilege to submit me to “overculture”, for my worth was in time, and only with respect to time I want to be judged.” Such are the venerable words of the old rifles. In blissful memories the old bullet appears to be the essence of noble hunting ethics, and many an old man will tie his finest youthful dreams to the old iron hanging mutely on the wall. As every man will hold his mother’s cooking to be perfect, as everyone who has devoted himself to a profession will swear by the skills of his master craftsman, so we shall grant the old ones their devotion to the old guns. Reverence of those guns making way to modern spirit is not bare stubbornness, it is not ignorance of progress, it is part of the religion of hunting, which the young record breakers in the ballistic field shall not deride, but they shall bow their heads. The old bullets have a grand past and, weighing heavily, their superior practice.
As we today are amazed about our forefathers being able through centuries, even millennia to hunt Wisent and Aurochs with the spear, with bow and arrow, so even today there are disciples of hunting for whom devotedness to the old caliber appears as a mystery. The word “fast-paced” is the slogan of the new time, and to it holy objects are sacrificed that the old hunters would have never parted with. Was it really possible to hit at all with the old bullet wrapped in woollen thread?
No shot has in my life has been more joyous than the first rifle shot on game. Admittedly, it was not quite flawless, owing to the object it was aimed at. But does not every hunter have a small debt account? And if you are allowed to roam the woods all on your own, as a two-pointer not quite 13 years old, your child’s breast filled with pride, can there be blame if shooting passion wins the command over reason?
What is not up to date anymore belongs to the past which is standing still in eternity. And mere reflection of vanishing calibers is lost time, the world is striving forward, and forlorn stands he who does not join the hustle.
So let us say farewell to the youthful dreams and to our faithful companion. The last bullet caliber 24 I have fired in these trials, for all times. The dear, good old lady also seemed to recognize the poetry of the situation; a sharply defined bullet smack she called back from the parapet, dull was its sound, like a handful of earth thrown on a coffin lid. That was the farewell greeting of the old lady. The dear bullet smack, heard so often, it is gone, it was a picture postcard by which the bullet told about its travel. The modern bullets go into the world, who knows whereto?
Isn’t it heartless and barbaric to reject a companion, up to now beloved and worshipped, only because she is short, fat and not modern anymore, and is moving only at a heavy deliberate pace across the rye spires, to offer your arm to a small, petite, lightly clad one with a slender waist? But beware of the temptress and watch out that she is not causing trouble some day from which you would have been secure with your dear old lady!
The young and slender ones are fleeting companions.

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