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ABBEY & IMBRIE
CENTENNIAL

Pista STORIES

Published by
BAKER, MURRAY & IMBRIE, INC.
New York, N. Y., U.S.A.

FEB 6 1920

*

©uias 61762 Noni

HE stories contained in this volume
were selected from 2,980 manu-
scripts submitted from all over the
United States and abroad. There is no
similar collection in existence anywhere
to our knowledge, and these stories are

published purely to promote the whole-
some pleasure and fine sportsmanship of
angling. The manuscripts comprising
this book are the sole property of
Abbey & Imbrie and, under the copy-
right protection to the book, cannot be
reprinted.

Copyright, 1920
ABBEY & IMBRIE
New York

Table of Contents

DATOS er Pe eme Ns etal e a) oes s)9lc Bhalieteia ao f
ALEXANDER YEARLEY, 3RD

‘The’ Romance on iwo wisn oi eo ee es i ae. 8
ALBERT BENJAMIN CUNNINGHAM

Redsides ont thenviarein se . sk eh dol. eek 10
JoHN KAYE GILL

The Prize Bass and the Super-Angler.......... 11
GEORGE V. TRIPLETT

AReamepotmamame sre Sac we Ck 13
A. K. P. HARVEY

Pris lan ean ee te) SV: LA rhs ros sidias eats ate abone. ek 15
E. A. BRININSTOOL

One. Wavy ot Gomer Misha 20!) We le 16
Mrs. Epita ELKIns

creates aye Ceci coc is led MAP a ae a 18
CHARLES WARNER MILLS

al Clntea! Bre cotte ey Ole oo 0 ee era ae 20
Pau. C. KUEGLE

White. sear siicash Battle} sfc ose a eee Ut eS 21
Orin P. THORSON

MIRC MEREORY, Esaseit aS ods Llstacsts ly Sale alot ta MME 25
CarL D. SCHUNCK

Wick: Minit ie a eee lec ee ag ty eS ae
FREDERICK L. CoE

‘Neher iiteeer peed ol. vox Wala ess Me ee ie oll 28
EMERY ALTON PEFFLEY

Whe walt EMOMt 3) jai: «i's. 2)= sider es leche ns st 31
RosBErtT B. PEcK

Pell egeuyie tala eg 1) Ve) a ee 33
E. E. SHOEMAKER

‘The Desecration of the Pool). G5) ob. ooo ee 35
TaMeBak:

The Legend of the Ouananiche............... 36
J. CRAWFORD MAXWELL

Fishing torinealias Sake . 0.2 2/82). of 5.2 be, 40

: PAUL FUGLER

Tarpon ontieingmae ie.) 0 Abas 2) os es ak 44
Lieut. R. W. SWEARINGEN

A, Brief for, Gumanous ‘Baits: 45). 0. ele 45
HvuBeErtT C. Norton

At the Other-Hadiot the Line... 0). ead. 47
M. M. ScHEID

Golf Balis/asikeass ait) es a te 48

E. F. LarHam

fe COs \
RS

2@ Jas _~

“‘He picked up one of the jugs, uncorked it and took a smell.”’

—From “The Jugger Jugged.”

Page 28.

Catalogitis

By ALEXANDER YEARLEY, 3rd

There is gloom among the medical profession,

There’s an ailment which they’ve failed to diagnose,
With humility they make the sad confession

That they know its name but can’t prescribe the dose.
Among fishermen this ailment is prevailing

And its symptoms anyone can eas’ly tell,
You can pick the man who suffers from this failing

But there’s nothing known to man to make him well.

When you see some men in earnest conversation,
Books in paper binding strewn on ev’ry side,
Books which largely are made up of illustration
(And a list of prices also do provide)
Showing rods and reels and lines and flies and spinners,
Artificial baits and plugs of ev’ry kind—
And all of which are guaranteed as winners—
Some with hooks in front and some with hooks behind;

When you see these men in thoughtful consultation
As they make a list of plugs they’d like to try,
See them give the matter deep consideration
When selecting what they really aim to buy,
Then you’ll know they have acute Catalogitis
And on fishing they are practic’ly insane.
It is far, far worse than any other—itis,
For they’re suffering from ‘‘ Fishing on the Brain.”

~]

The Romance of Two Fish

By ALBERT BENJAMIN CUNNINGHAM

Y friend, Iam an old man. This white hair—you would
not think it was once black as midnight. It has been
so long ago.

I can’t work much any more. See that hand? All
drawed out o’ shape. Rheumatism. Hurts when I try to do any-
thing. So come spring, I dig me a few worms and kinda go off
down to the crick.

There is a tollable deep hole down there, an’ the bank is good
to set on. I bait my hook an’ throw it in an’ wait fer the floater
to go under.

But some days they won’t bite. But I don’t go home. The
boys don’t need an old codger like me putterin’ around. I just set
on the bank an’ think about things.

An’ it was once when I was settin’ there—it musta been about
four o’clock. I could hear Jessie—that’s my son Tom’s wife—a-
callin’ the cows.

Yes, sir, I was jest settin’ there thinkin’ when I saw this thing
begin, that I’m goin’ to tell you about. I saw the beginnin’ of a love
affair ’tween two fish.

Right away I hear you say this is a sure-enough fish story.
The love of a fish! But—my friend, 1 amanold man. An’ what my
eyes see they see.

A little lady bass, slim like a chestnut leaf an’ so white I could
almost see through her! This purty little thing lifted in the water
not far out an’ stood still as one o’ our evenin’s up here. She re-
minded me o’ some slip of a gal, jest restin’ a minute.

An’ whilst she was hangin’ there, up from the deep hole comes
a bigger one, thick an’ black, though you could see he was only a
young ’un, because he was not so very big himself and because he
was kinda awkward, like he was embarrassed.

He comes up to my little lady bass an’ sidles up to her like he was
tryin’ to make love to her. But what did she do? She turns quick
like, flips him in the side with her tail, and swims off, indifferent.

“Turned him down, by Jiminy!’’ I cried, watchin’ him to see
how he took it.

There was nothin’ for me to do up to the house that night.
Tom, he done all the work. So I thought about my little lady bass.
I hoped she wouldn’t give in too easy.

8

I was settin’ on the bank the next day when up she floats
agin an’ hangs there, indifferent like, but lookin’ out o’ the corner
of her eye, I thought.

An’ by Jiminy, didn’t he come after her? I hadn’t liked him
the day before. He ’peared too overbearin’. But he was different
now; kinda meek an’ humble. I hoped she wouldn’t turn him
down.

But she did. Before he even got up to her, she turned,
dropped, an’ made fer the deep hole, quick as a flash. He dropped
down, too, but plumb discouraged. I could tell by the way his
gills worked.

“Keep after her, Sonny,” I encouraged. ‘‘You’ll land her yit.”

An’ he went after her, but slow like.

I didn’t git back fer nigh a week. My knee hurt me, an’
Jessie thought I’d better stay in. I wanted to work about, but
Tom said he could do everything. Jessie was unravelin’ some-
thing, an’ I got her to let me do that, makin’ the yarn into a big
ball.

I got to thinkin’ about my fish. Had he got her yit? They
might be gone, time I got back. So one morning I said my knee
didn’t hurt any more, an’ got my bait can an’ started off.

Out o’ sight o’ the house, I let down an’ limped a little. It
wa’n’t quite well yit. But I got to the bank an’ set down an’
waited. She might a gone away, o’ course.

Then I saw somethin’ comin’ down toward me. It wa’n’t
one, but two fish. I looked agin. There was my little lady fish
comin’, lookin’ slimmer an’ purtier’n ever an’ beside her was Sonny.

‘He got her,” I crowed. ‘‘By Jiminy!”

They come up close to the bank. What was they doin’? Then
I saw. Down on the bottom was a smooth place, bigger’n your
two hands, an’ the little lady swum up onto it, as shy and purty
as you please.

““Spawnin!”’

An’ off to one side like a fierce watch-dog was Sonny, keepin’
watch for her. A yaller willow blow fell into the water and scairt
her. Quick as a flash she was by his side; an’ he was all fierce-
eyed an’ threatenin’, but not at her. He was guardin’ her.

She actually went up an’ rubbed agin him, like she was sayin’
‘““My man.” An’ he, though wondrous pleased, looked fierce agin.
Then she slid back up on the bed.

My friend, I am an old man, an’ I saw it.

- Redsides on the March

By JoHN KAYE GILL

O see that wonderful thing again, I would give my best

rod; but I had that one opportunity, and it will probably

never return. Yet the ‘“‘redsides’’ throng up Scappoose

and Milton rivers annually to their spawning-grounds.
A pool forty yards long is sometimes so crowded with them that
the bottom is completely hidden; and I have floated a worm over
these myriads with never a strike.

This is the story and the simple truth.

I was fishing the north fork of Scappoose early one morning in
May, a mile above the last farm, and had a dozen ‘‘Clark”’ trout
already. I was trying out a long bend where the stream had cut
deep into the farther bank—a promising situation. On my side a
gravel shore, gently sloping, ten yards wide and fifty long, gave
me plenty of room for my back cast. I was very busy. The
trout were rising at nearly every cast. I glanced up the stretch
at whose head a little fall roared above the murmur of the current
at my feet. On my side the fall was next to nothing, but gradually
rose to three feet at the farther bank. I was pleasantly occupied,
but thought that under the fall I would be sure of a bigger fish
than I had taken. Again I glanced upstream, while my flies were
in the air, and noticed something queer where the fall touched the
gravel. The gray pebbles were hid by a dark belt that curved
around the fall into the pool above.

I fished a few more casts and again looked upstream. Then I
had a real thrill! The dark belt was doubtless the spoor of a bear
which had been wallowing below the fall, and ‘seeing me first,’’ had
floundered out around the fall into the next pool. So I moved with
great discretion for the next few yards.

As I approached the dusky belt I saw that the stony beach was
entirely hidden by a solid column of fish, extending six or eight feet
from the water’s edge at the shallow end of the fall, and curving into
the river above. Many fish were leaping and scrambling over that
part of the fall, which was but a few inches high, and their struggles
sprinkled the horde of land travelers, which moved at a snail’s pace.
I am sure the outermost fish would have been half an hour out of
water in making this transit.

On a trail on the far side was my brother Jim who had been
watching my fishing farther down, but hidden from me some

10

minutes. He was just emerging from the alders. I waved my arm
excitedly, calling him to come and see this strange sight. .At my
gesture the column broke in wild disorder. Hundreds of redsides
were flapping back into the water. I dashed among them and threw
twenty or more farther up the beach. In five minutes these were
dead.

The column I had surprised had doubtless begun the ascent in
the night, intending to be safe in upper waters before daylight. The
fish were packed as closely as buns in a pan, and were making their
way over the gravel, all at a uniform pace—not one foot to the
minute—by using their ventral fins as feet. They leaned a bit
toward the water. If one had fallen on his side at the left flank of
the procession, he must have died. It would have been impossible
to right himself; but not one had lost his balance.

And thus certain fish of no great swimming power, surmount
obstacles in their way to the spawning beds. I have asked many
anglers on our ‘‘west side’’ streams, but none has ever seen this
marvelous sight.

I hope to camp beside that fall sometime—a week if need be—
and watch night and day for a similar hegira; but I fear I lost my
one opportunity to observe carefully every circumstance of that
wonderful migration.

The Prize Bass and the
Super-Angler

By GEo. V. TRIPLETT

HEY should be joyous retrospects, these little tales of fish
and fishermen; but sometimes the decrees of fate will it
otherwise. Of all the sad words of tongue or pen—but
let the facts speak for themselves.

We had ‘spent kings’ ransoms on our twin cabins up at the lake,
not to mention dingy boats, minnow tanks, acetylene lamps,
refrigerators, rods, reels, lines, bugs, plugs, wobblers, wrigglers,
and a lot more things that impoverish anglers. We were a joy-
loving, fish-loving, open-air-loving contented bunch of rejuvenated
old sports—bankers, lawyers, doctors, preachers, et id genus omnes;
all bubbling over with enthusiasm, plus.

And then entered the villain.

11

In every lake, you know, there is one more or less mythical
denizen of the deep. We had one up at Kingfisher—a big, elusive,
uncapturable Micropterus salmoides, which had broken more lines
and shaken off more tangoes and wobblers than the oldest gray-
beard could recount. Nearly every Kingfisherite had hooked and
lost this doughty warrior, and nourished the spark of revenge deep
in his soul.

Thus matters stood when, one soft midsummer holiday, in
deference to our esteemed president, affectionately called Uncle
Jimmy, we invited his nephew, Algy Trimble, up to the lake to
have luncheon and wet a line if he cared to do so. Algy said he
would be glad to interview the lunch hamper and drink a bottle
of pop, but that he had never caught a fish in his life; not even a
little bullhead or sunny. He abhorred worms. All boats looked
leaky to him. It gave him tonsillitis to get his feet wet even in
July. He was a lingerie expert; not a fisherman.

Algy arrived at the lake just before luncheon hour, nattily clad
in white flannels, and after the avuncular greeting, as our guest
de luxe, he needs must take Uncle Jimmy’s new rock-elm rod and
try a cast off the boat dock. Algy demurred, but Uncle Jimmy
showed him that no worm was involved in the process, only a fuzzy
inanimate contraption already fastened on with a swivel. Thus
was Algy initiated into the Waltonian mysteries. He tripped
gingerly across the gang plank, gripped the rod with both hands,
made a wild sideswipe, and, mirabile dictu, dropped the bug within
two feet of an old tree about forty feet out in the lake. Almost in-
stantly there was an angry swirl and Algy’s reel began to buzz
like a dentist’s motor. ‘“‘You’ve got him,’ Uncle Jimmy shouted.
“Hold on—keep your rod up—don’t run. D 1” And Algy
held on. The springy rock-elm rod dipped and curved, and Uncle
Jimmy exhorted, admonished and swore. Algy was so scared he
couldn’t move. Finally, after Uncle Jimmy had threatened to in-
flict every form of mayhem on him and even to kill him in cold blood,
Algy managed to grab the reel crank and drag his struggling cap-
tive alongside the dock. By this time half the club had rushed
down to the battle-front and one of them forced a landing net into
Algy’s palsied hand. Algy didn’t know any more about manipu-
lating a landing net than he did about looping the loop in a mono-
plane, but he made another wild sideswipe and flung a big flounder-
ing object out on the dock floor. Then—but why resurrect the har-
rowing details? There he lay—a great dripping bronzed veteran,
eight pounds to an ounce, the biggest black bass ever caught in

12

old Kingfisher, the one grand prize on which the hopes of every
Kingfisherite had been centered for lagging months.

And Algy—Algy, who couldn’t impale a house-fly on a pin-
hook—whose most strenuous purpose on that eventful day was only
to nibble a sandwich and drink a bottle of pop—Algy had caught
him!

And today his royal remains hang resplendent in Algy’s lady-
like boudoir, with Uncle Jimmy’s fuzzy-looking bug dangling
from his mighty jaw.

Such are the tricks of destiny. Such the irony of fame.

There are still many Brothers of the Angle in our town, but in
the popular estimation there is but one Super-Angler.

His name is Algy.

A Real Sportsman

By A. K. P. HARVEY

HE tackle was a curio. A twelve-foot bamboo pole, tipped
with four feet of heavy wire supporting a single yard of
stout chalk-line armed with three cod hooks, from each of
which dangled a generous strip of bacon rind for bait. Such
was the ‘‘tackle’’ with which the old ‘‘Cracker” outfitted me when,
having concluded the consultation for which I had been sum-
moned to Florida, I expressed a desire to pass the time before my
train came in the indulgence of my favorite sport of angling.

Arrived at the fishing-grounds in the old man’s rickety boat,
I was ready for the first cast.

‘What is the most approved method of operating this er—ah
—tackle?”’

“Vou-all jist sozzle the bait ahead of the boat an’ look out for
em when they come, suh.”’

And so, I ‘‘sozzled.’’ As the bacon splashed into the water be-
side a submerged log, a big bass darted from its shelter, taking the
end hook.

‘Pull him in hand over hand an’ don’t let him jump, suh.”

As I attempted the manceuvre, the fish rushed for the shelter
of another log just ahead of the boat. Then came a mighty swirl
and vicious tugging at the line, which nearly pulled the pole from
my hands.

13

‘‘What in the name of Isaac Walton have I struck now?”

““My Gawd, you’ve got a gator! He grabbed yer bass, suh.
He’s a little feller, but they’re all techy, suh.”’

“This one is ‘touchy’ all right. What will he do?”

“Dum near what he reck’ns ter do. Look out! He’s comin’,
suh.”’

‘‘Coming”’ he surely was, and straight for the boat. He was
about seven feet long but looked bigger than a hippopotamus.
My eyes staring, my hair on end, I resolved to jump for it and get
ashore. I gathered for the spring just as the alligator poked his
nose through the pads directly before me. It was too late to stop;
but in making the effort to do so I lost my balance, and with legs
and arms extended I landed squarely upon the reptile’s back.
With a lightning fluke of his powerful tail the frightened ‘‘gator”’
dived; while I, with a yell that would discount a Mohawk war-
whoop, scrambled ashore. In the meantime the old Cracker had
caught up a rope from the bottom of the boat, and, quickly form-
ing a noose, had dextrously slipped it over the “‘gator’s’’ head.
As I turned on gaining the shore, the old man was waist deep in
the water having it out with our quarry, which was stirring up the
lake in his mad endeavor to escape.

“Can’t ye give us a hand, suh?”’ he pleaded.

‘‘Not for the whole blessed county. For heaven’s sake, man,
let that thing go. Do you want to be eaten alive?”

“He don’t want to eat nobody. He’s as skeert as you-all be,
suh. Give us a hand or he'll get away, suh.”’

Abashed at the part I was playing, I plunged into the fray.
Our combined efforts promptly subdued our opponent and he was
quickly pulled ashore, when I threw myself upon the ground com-
pletely exhausted.

‘This beats all the fishing I ever saw or heard of,’’ I gasped.
And I believe I am the only living man who can truthfully relate
such an experience.

“How will you dispose of him, now that we have him?”

“He’s your meat, suh. I hope you have enjoyed yourself,
suh.’”’ And the old man grinned as he tied the rope around a stump
root.

“Well then, since he is such a ‘little fellow’ and has given us
more excitement than we could have found elsewhere in a dozen
years, why not let him go and grow up? There is no joy in murder;
and possibly some other fisherman may sometime enjoy a scrap
with him as much as we have.”

14

The old Cracker mused for a moment; tied his clasp knife to
a stick and guardedly cut the rope from the creature’s neck; shifted
his cud of native leaf to the other cheek and said: ‘I’m mighty
glad to hear ye say that, suh. I jist nacherly reck’n’d that you-all
was a real sportsman, and now I know it. Mighty glad ye said it,
suh.”’

Fish Crazy!

By E. A. BRININSTOOL

N my capacity as a drummer for a Los Angeles grocery store I
stepped off a train in a small town in Southern California. I
walked across the street, but there was but one man in
sight. He was a native who sat on a box in front of the only

grocery, mending a broken fish rod. He looked up as I approached,
pausing long enough to remark, ‘‘Howdy,” and then continued
his repairs. I walked inside the store, but it was deserted. There
wasn’t a living thing in sight, save a dirty-white cat, contentedly
curled up in a barrel of rolled oats. I rapped on the counter, but
nobody came. Then I stepped to the door and asked the native:

‘“Where’s the proprietor?’’ ;

‘“‘Gone troutin’ up Fish Canyon. Won’t be back till day after
tomorry. Want anything?”’

‘“No, want to sell something,”’ I replied.

“Have t’ call agin, mister. I’m supposed to be tendin’ store,
but I cain’t buy nothin’. I kin sell yeh a darn good axe halve fer
two bits, though.”

‘““Where’s the barber-shop? Guess I’ll get a shave while I wait
for the next train.”

“Right across the street, but he ain’t home. Gone up San
Gabr’! Canyon fer th’ day.”

‘Fishin’ ?”’

“Yep.”

‘There used to be a drug-store here where I occasionally made
a sale. Suppose the boss would be in?”’

“T don’t reckon so. I saw him a-diggin’ bait when I come
past his place awhile back.”

“Well, that’s too bad. I guess I'll just step over to the post-
office and see when the next train goes out.”

15

“It’s shet. That’s the postmaster a-goin’ ’crost lots with that
fish pole onto his shoulder. See him?”’

‘When can I get out of this place, any how?” I asked, con-
siderably nettled at this turn of affairs.

“Six o’clock tonight’s fust train,’’ replied the man with a
yawn, as he swished the pole up and down, closed his jackknife
and arose hastily from his seat on the box.

‘See here, my friend,’ said I. ‘‘Have you got a Tin Lizzie?”

“Yep, one o’ th’ kind that eats oats. She’s a one-cylinder
kind, but she gits thar just the same.”’

“What will you charge to drive me to the next town?’’ I asked,
jingling some coins in my pocket enticingly.

““Can’t do it, stranger.”

“Why not?” I asked impatiently.

“Cuz I’m goin’ to try and ketch up with th’ postmaster jest
as soon’s I tie a line onto this pole.”

And I'll be darned if I didn’t have to hang around that place
all day, watching the cows eat grass off the public square.

One Way of Going Fishing

By Mrs. EpitH ELKINS

AM a “mere woman”’ just off the operating table of a city

hospital and your advertisement tempts me to relate a fish-

ing experience of my own that happened years ago. As a

girl I had fished in the rivers and small lakes of Illinois and
shot quail and ducks in the open season. Then I married, and for
twelve long years never dared go fishing on peril of being con-
sidered ‘‘mannish’”’ by my narrow-minded in-laws.

One early spring morning my husband said: ‘‘You’ll have to
milk. Jack (the hired man) and I are going fishing. Bass are
coming up in slews this morning.’’ I replied: ‘‘All right, I’m go-
ing this evening. You and Jack can get supper.’ ‘‘Why, I can’t,”
he roared back, ‘‘I’ve got to go to town and there’s no one to take
care of the babies or feed the little chicks and milk the cows.” I
said no more but bided my time and dug worms and netted grass-
hoppers for bait. I packed my lunch-box, a bottle of milk, a bucket
of water, and my bouncing baby boy in his cab, only to find every
fish pole had been hidden to keep me at home. That didn’t deter

16

me. I had lines and hooks, so I added the butcher knife to my load
and started, still pretty sore about my treatment but none the less
determined, with Baby in his cab and four-year-old Baby Girl’
toddling at my side, saying, ‘‘ Papa said ‘Mamma tan’t tach a sish;
takes Papa to do dat’.”’

That was the last straw. I cried, not that I felt so hurt, but
because I couldn’t swear. For once in my life I realized the value
of spontaneous profanity and would have been happy to have used
it as a safety-valve.

We were at the pasture-gate and the tang of the black walnut
leaves and the gleam of a clump of red-bud in the sunlight said
plainly: ‘‘Cut it out, you’re going fishing anyway. If those darned
men are hungry let ’em cook. You’ve got your lunch along.” I
listened. As I closed the gate I said ‘‘ good-bye”’ to my grouch.

Kazan never heard the call of the wild clearer than I heard it
that day. I trudged on, my heavy load growing lighter as sweet
arbutus, violet, blood-root and squirrel corn peeped their welcome
to me from among the weeds and ferns. We were soon at the
river, overhung by elm and sycamore with maple, hickory and
oaks farther back, sprinkled here and there with crab-apple, dog-
wood and red-bud—God’s own fragrance for his glorious woodlands.
I ‘‘swiped”’ a hoop-pole for myself and cut a willow for Baby Girl
to fish with. I had landed several small bass with the hoppers
when Baby Girl called: “‘Mamma! Mamma! Somefins detting
my sish pole!’” Something had, too,—a two-pound cat,—and I
got him for her supper. While we celebrated her first catch we
forgot Boy who was bouncing in his cab, crowing and trying to
catch the rustling leaves.

We were brought back to earth again by a “‘ker-splash”’ and a
lusty squall. I grabbed my sputtering hopeful out of the shallow,
muddy water, gave him a river bath, dressed him comfortably
and put him to sleep on a pallet on the ground.

Then we had supper,—three nice bass broiled on the coals.
The sun was down. I was ready for home, but Baby Girl was
sleepy and lay down on the pallet. I fished on in the twilight won-
dering how I’d ever get the babies and fish home in the semi-
darkness.

““Goo! Goo! Goo! Goo!’ Boy was awake and had crawled
out to find Mother. What could I do with that kid? I’d just got
a bite and he wouldn’t stay ‘‘put’’ anywhere on a bet. Then
Baby Girl waked and came to me in the mud. I had Boy on my arm
when I got another sneaky nibble. I tried to swing my line, but

17

could not and was sure I had a mossback. The next swing brought
out a big grinnell that dropped off the hook in mud ankle-deep.
I had my knee on him in a jiffy and called Baby Girl to help string
him (as I couldn’t drop Boy in the mud). She was shaking with
fright and saying, ‘‘I’se so cold,’’ while Boy cooed at the fish’s
struggles.

We got him, however, and when we finally loaded up and went
home we had eight bass, ten cats and a twenty-one-inch grinnell.
Baby Girl was now well convinced that Mother was the greatest
fisher ever.

The First Tarpon

By CHARLES WARNER MILLS

OR twelve days we fished faithfully for tarpon near Sara-
sota, Florida. The night of the thirteenth day we started
fishing at 7 o’clock. Ten minutes later there was a rush
at my shiner. I held my breath and struck, setting the

hook. Then came what I had anxiously been waiting for—a leap
from a tarpon at the end of my line.

The thrill experienced will be remembered to my dying day.
‘“‘That’s a beauty, and if you can land him I’ll buy you a new hat,”
cried the guide. ‘‘He’ll easily weigh 150 pounds and for heaven’s
sake be careful,’’ he shouted, as the big fellow reeled off yard after
yard of line.

I was actually trembling from head to foot as he made his wild
rushes, first in one direction and the next minute at an entirely
opposite angle. Then came the second leap and a vigorous shake
of the head. He was fighting desperately, and I was using every
particle of skill I had accumulated by years of experience in fresh-
water fishing. My black-bass knowledge proved valuable, as the
antics of the tarpon were quite like the small-mouth bass, only
greatly magnified.

In twenty minutes it had grown dark. Captain Roberts com-
mended me on my handling the fish so far, but expressed doubts
about saving the big fellow as I should have to play him in absolute
darkness for a half-hour, as the moon would not appear until about
eight o’clock, and I should not be able to depend upon Mr. Roberts
for assistance in the fight. Instead of his giving me instructions I
was forced to depend entirely upon myself and to shout to the

18

guide to pull ahead faster, or to back the boat rapidly, as the tar-
pon would rip through the water at a furious rate and almost
deplete my reel of line. Then he would shoot to the right or left,
and I would shout orders as to how the boat should be guided.

To make matters worse, a thunder-storm formed in the east
and this prolonged my fight in absolute darkness for a full hour
and a half.

At the end of an hour in the blackness of night the guide began
to offer encouragement. He fairly yelled: ‘If you can continue to
play him until the moon shows up, I believe you'll land him, as he
has made eight leaps and must be getting tired.’

By this time I was quite calm and equally determined that Mr.
Tarpon must be captured.

Finally the moon appeared and in the brightness of its reflec-
tion there were five more leaps—beautiful pictures to behold in the
moonlight,

But to our dismay the clouds gathered again, adding to our
difficulties.

Finally there were evidences that the tarpon was giving up,
and soon the fight was over. All that was necessary to do was to
draw the fish close to the boat and the gaff. I did so, and the guide
proceeded to do his part, but in the almost total darkness, caused
by the deep bank of clouds obscuring the moon, the gaff penetrated
the fish lightly. He made a death struggle and freed himself from
the gaff—and floated away with the tide, which was running fast
by this time.

We were both dazed for a few seconds when I cried: “‘He’s
gone!’’ Captain Clarence moaned: ‘He has, and it’s all my fault.
I’ll be d——d if I’ll go home to-night.”’

I looked at my watch. It was 10.20. Il had played my first
tarpon three hours and ten minutes and lost him.

I threw myself in the bottom of the boat absolutely unnerved
and exhausted.

The guide sat motionless for a minute, when he inquired if I
would not try for another. I replied that I hadn’t strength enough
left to pull in a ten-pound grouper.

I found comfort in the thought that it was a great fight—prob-
ably as great as I'll ever experience—and we slowly proceeded for
home and bed.

It was the thirteenth day we had tried for tarpon and he made
thirteen leaps.

Maybe that was the answer.

19

The Doctor’s Catch

By Pau. C. KUEGLE

HE Doctor swore fervently and his face flushed like a rosy

sunset. A roar went up from the stern of the boat which

the moss-draped live-oaks and pines and palmettoes

echoed and re-echoed back and forth across the sunlit
waters of the Florida bayou until it lost itself along the winding
channel toward the sea.

But a moment before, the guide had handed back to the Doctor
his light banboo casting-rod and reel, which for the past twenty-
five minutes had whipped and bent and sung under the tugs and
lunges of an invisible monster, and rowed straight along the taut
line, the Doctor excitedly reeling in. On the guide’s face was that
amused quizzical expression which we had come to look for when,
for any of the many possible reasons, we had failed to land our
strikes.

But, to go back to the beginning of things. An hour earlier,
the Doctor had hooked a gamy red fish, which, after ten minutes
of good sport, rested in the box under the guide’s seat and added
six and a half pounds to the sundry sea trout which Joe (who had
done the roaring), the guide, and I had hauled in. We knew the
Doctor was a master of the art by the way he had landed this
largest of the day’s catch.

So we trolled back and forth across the favorite spot, hoping
every moment to receive that thrilling message telegraphed from
the depths along the line to the quivering rod tip, and to enjoy
that keen, blood-tingling sensation which every angler knows.
A good tide was running and a fitful wind blowing. These things
were afterwards responsible for some of the events which followed.

“T’ve got him,” suddenly said the Doctor, standing up, his rod
bent like a bow, and his reel singing the anglers’ song. ‘Steady
now,’ said the guide, as he put the boat hard around. Joe and I
reeled rapidly in so as to give the master a clean field in which to
play his catch, and contented ourselves by casting until such time
as we should be needed to help lift the monster into the boat, or
that being impossible, tie him on to be towed to camp.

For five minutes the Doctor stood like a statue, his pole rigid
and line tight, giving or taking a little line as was necessary. An-
other five minutes and there was no change. Still another five
and the catch was not yet near the boat, apparently having taken

20

to sulking on the bottom and matching its strength and endurance
with that of its human competitor.

In the next five-minute period some of the line had been labori-
ously reclaimed by the reel, only to be released under the steady
pressure from below. The Doctor was having all the fun, and,
having no luck ourselves, Joe and I were becoming restless. By
the way the smoke curled from the guide’s pipe we knew that he,
too, was uneasy. Twenty-five minutes had passed when he said:
‘‘Tust let me feel that fellow a bit,’’ and reached for the rod. After
a bit of a pull, and a careful ‘‘feel” of the line, he handed it back,
took up his paddle and sent the boat straight along the line, fifty
yards, seventy-five yards, and as we neared the hundred mark
we saw through the clear water the white minnow held rigid by
the tension of the line, and attached to it a large dark object. The
Doctor was fast to a stump.

White Scar’s Last Battle

By Orin P. THORSON

HITE SCAR had now seen six summers of battle

and strife. During all this time he had been the

sole dominator of Pine Lake, a small lake in north-

ern Minnesota. No other fish ever considered the
possibilities of using his domain as a feeding ground, for time and
again he had defeated all comers and had proven himself capable
of maintaining his position. In order to know who White Scar was
it is necessary to go back several years.

When he first found his way into Pine Lake he was but a year
old and full of fight. He had trouble as soon as he arrived, for at
that time the lake was dominated by another Muskie larger and
older than himself. When the contestants discovered each other,
they knew there must be a battle to decide who should dominate.
It was after a hard battle for both, that the larger fish was compelled
to retreat to some other waters and leave White Scar the ruler.
But this was only his first battle, as we shall see later in the story.

A year had now passed and again White Scar found it neces-
sary to defend his office. This time it was a long sleek otter that
threatened him. He was also a veteran and made a good match
for White Scar, as he later found out. He made a lunge for the great
fish, but a clever movement of the tail put White Scar to one side.

21

But as quick as he was, the otter managed to dig one of his claws
into his smooth coat and tore a long gash. When this healed, it
turned white and was the cause of his name. An hour of fighting,
however, exhausted the otter and he was compelled to leave the
field with White Scar again as king.

During these years no one had yet captured White Scar. It
remained, however, for Dan Hardy, an eastern sportsman, to accom-
plish the feat. He was a member of an eastern club who took his
annual fishing trips in the northern woods of Minnesota and Wis-
consin. He was a true sportsman and obtained his trophies in a
sportsmanlike manner. Few handled the rod with more skill than
Hardy and many fish fell before his tempting baits.

On his arrival he was informed by the local nimrods of the re-
treat of White Scar. They recounted the different experiences
with him and some were not altogether accurate when giving his
size. Hardy, however, needed little encouragement to try his
skill, and departed immediately with his guide for Pine Lake.
Evening brought them to the little lake, and Hardy lost no time
in making a few trial casts. Not receiving any strikes, he tried
new ground, but to no avail.

A week had passed and but one day remained of Hardy’s va-
cation. He had not as yet received any strikes from the monarch,
but had succeeded in gaffing smaller fish.

On the day following he arose early with his guide and pre-
pared for a final trial to capture White Scar. Paddling to a more
remote part of the lake he made a long cast, repeating it by several
more, but with no results. Giving this up he baited a Number Six
spoon with a large frog and trolled for a mile. They were turning
when Hardy felt a vicious tug and the reel began spinning. They
back-watered and began playing the fish, taking in and giving out
with greatest care. Several times Hardy obtained a glance at the
huge fish, but as yet the fight was not over. White Scar tried all
the methods he had acquired in a life of fighting, but the hook
remained firm.

An hour of fighting had begun to tell on White Scar, and it
was not long ere he came floating toward the canoe with his great
mouth open. When the guide struck the gaff he made a final
lunge, but to no avail. A quick movement of the guide’s arm,
and White Scar was gasping in the bottom of the canoe with his
bright skin glistening in the sun. White Scar, the monarch and
victor of many battles, had at last been defeated by one superior
to himself.

22

From
“THE OFFERTORY BASS”
Page 25

\
(

made such a desperate swipe at the equally

desperate fish that the coins went tail

*

*

spinning

”

all over the waterscape.

The Offertory Bass

By Car D. SCHUNCK

N a large city there once dwelt a small family,—mother,
father, and fourteen-year-old son. Father and son had
spent all Spring and considerable money in carefully purchas-
ing a complete outfit of fresh-water bass tackle in accordance

with the specifications of the latest sport magazines. Both had
the fever badly. It was a plain case of tackleitis in such advanced
stages that the Mrs. could do nothing to avert the crisis which
meant spending the annual two weeks’ holiday at Springwood Lake.
Atlantic City was her best bet, but for once she was compelled to
wave the white flag.

So it was that on a Friday night early in July the small family
piled off at Springwood Lake, the Mrs. to make the best of it and
Mr. and Junior to catch everything in the lake that wore fins.

Saturday morning the latter two were at it before daybreak.
They cast, trolled, skittered and swore in turn until evening, but
the fish wouldn’t even give them consideration. Every prize plug
and spinner in the kit was sent to the bat for a pinch hit, but not
a single strike was scored. It was a down-right freezeout; and to
make matters worse the next day was Sunday, which by Ma’s
orders meant no fishing.

However, right after cornflakes Sunday morning Senior and
Junior held a bait council which resulted in favor of night-crawlers.
The ground was too dry to spade up any big fellows, but Junior
had aremedy. By pouring a mixture of mustard and water into the
largest earth-worm holes he produced an amazing result. In ten
seconds those night-crawlers fairly jumped from their dug-outs
shouting ‘‘Kamerad!’’ and begging to be made prisoner. This
method of capture took Dad clean off his feet and he was sorely
tempted to try a few crawlers on the bass forthwith.

Meanwhile, at the hotel, Ma had made the acquaintance of
the local minister and learned from him that one of the main at-
tractions of Springwood Lake was the Sunday afternoon services
at Chapel Point where the congregation assembled in boats and
canoes. Of course, she would come! Indeed, it would be a pleas-
ure to have her son help the minister’s little daughter Angelicia
take up the collection in Angelicia’s canoe.

Thus was Junior elected to be assistant coin-gatherer of the
Springwood parish, and 4 p.m. found him on the job, deftly pad-

25

dling throughout the assembled boats while Angelicia rounded up a
goodly sum in a long-handled basket built along the lines of a
crab net.

The last few contributions were being corralled when the skiff
containing Ma and Pa started with a mysteriously slow and jerky
motion toward the centre of the lake without any visible means
of persuasion. Pa seemed undecided as to what should be done,
but it was too much for Ma. Her plaintive squeals for help di-
verted all attention from the sermon to the skiff’s unusual con-
duct. With a few sweeps of his trust paddle, Junior swung his
canoe to the rescue just as the unknown power appeared.

About ten yards from the skiff’s bow a black bass all of three
feet long broke water and shook vigorously to free itself from a
drop-line which stretched taut from one of Pa’s oar-locks. It
was a prize winner and easily held the speed record for breaking
up a church meeting.

Junior let loose a war-whoop, grabbed the collection from An-
gelicia and made such a desperate swipe at the equally desperate
fish that the coins went tail-spinning all over the waterscape.
But the bass was doomed, and a moment later it lay in the bot-
tom of the canoe.

Angelicia bawled lustily for her lost money; Ma turned from
white to purple but she saw red; Pa dug up a ten-spot which effec-
tually quieted Angelicia, then Ma cut loose:

“Henry Mullet, you’ve discovered the proper bait for bass,
but I’ve discovered that you’re through with fishing; you will have
that fish thrown overboard at once, take me back to the hotel
and buy three tickets for the first train to Atlantic City!”’

26

War Minnows

By FREDERICK L. CoE

OU’RE allowed to do pretty much as you like at a rest

camp, so when my buddy and I asked for a pass to go

fishing out of bounds there was no objection. We had

already noted that the country—it was in the lower
Vosges—closely resembled our own beloved New England. More-
over, the streams looked as though they would have trout, or
should have. But first we had to get some fishing tackle.

Ever try to buy anything from a fat French shopkeeperess
who can’t understand a word of English—or American—while
your knowledge of French is confined to the little forced upon
you at high-school and as promptly forgotten? And if you believe
that you could explain such a situation by sign talk or pantomime,
why, just try it. But after a hard battle we did manage to get
something remotely resembling an outfit.

The following morning two soldiers might have been observed
headed for the country carrying poles at ease. There in the beau-
tiful beech-covered hills where the little brook tumbled its way
down a winding course, now foaming over ledges and now spread-
ing out in ripples with an occasional deep, quiet pool, the grim war
was forgotten—a nightmare of the past. Here everything was
peaceful. Also the fish—such as they were—bit splendidly. I
can’t say they were large, not a one over a quarter pound, while
many were kept only by grace of an elastic conscience. But be-
yond blaming that upon association—generally enforced—with
Fritz, we continued on our happy way. After what we had been
through, this was so peaceful that it fairly hurt. All good things
must end, and only too soon we had to return.

We came in for considerable guying from the fellows on the
way back regarding the size of our fish—and considerable doesn’t
at all express it. We knew what’d be coming later. Soldiers have
a way of putting things that get under the hide.

Upon nearing the village we noticed an unusual stir and on
arrival saw that a long line of Boche prisoners were passing through,
on the way to some prison camp. They were a miserable lot, all
of the latest classes; pale, aneemic-looking boys of not over seven-
teen and in about the worst physical condition possible. As we
stood watching them a remark suddenly brought me to myself
with a jump. I turned around with a quick retort ready. But

27

luckily I choked it back just in time. It was none other than our
colonel—an enthusiastic fisherman in better times—who had spoken
as he stood gazing disgustedly at the poor specimens of Huns.

‘“‘Hell—”’ he said, ‘‘why don’t they throw them back; they’re
all under six inches.”

The Jugger Jugged

AST summer I spent a week fishing on the St. Francis River
in northeastern Arkansas. After several days of fine luck
with the game fish, I decided to try jugging for cat. Row-
ing over to Lake City, about a mile away, I secured some

large hooks, strong line, a half-dozen large jugs and some beef liver
for bait. I floated down the river aways as I rigged up the jugs, then
strung them out about fifty feet apart, in the middle of the stream,
which was wide at this point, and drifted along in the rear watch-
ing for a strike. There was not much current, so the jugs moved
down slowly.

After floating along for a few hundred yards the jug at the
head of the line began to jump around and then disappeared,
popped up again and started out slowly toward the far bank. I
hurried after the jug, soon came alongside and got a hold on the
line. After quite a struggle I succeeded in getting a fine twenty-five-
pound cat safely into the boat.

I had just placed the jug back into line again and dropped in
behind the string when I heard some one yelling from the shore.
I paid no attention but drifted on, watching the row of jugs for
another strike, when I heard the sharp crack of a high-power rifle
and a bullet splashed the water just ahead of the boat. Astounded,
I looked up and on the bank ahead of me stood a man looking
down the barrel of a perfectly good Winchester, saying: ‘‘Hand on
to the oars, Pard, or I’ll perforate you; and head her in this way
quick!’ I turned the boat and cut for the bank at my best speed,
without any discussion, as I imagined that I could see at least
seventeen long bullets in that gun.

As I grounded the boat, I got the order, ‘“‘ Hands up,”‘ and you
bet they went up, and it was all that I could do to hold my feet
down.

28

From
“THE TWILIGHT TROUT”
Page 31

‘Michel * * * seized his paddle and started for the

portage.

‘“‘Now get up and come out,” said my captor. I came out with
my hands skyward and my knees bumping. As I came up the
bank, he fell in behind and slipped a pair of hand-cuffs on me
before I could realize what was going on, then taking a trace chain
out of his pocket he locked me to a tree. After that he hurried
down to the boat, saying: ‘‘Don’t worry, I’ll be back for you as
soon as I gather up the jugs.”

He rowed rapidly out and soon had all the jugs in the boat,
after which he headed for the bank. As soon as he landed he
picked up one of the jugs, uncorked it and took a smell, looked a
little astonished and tried another and another, until he had
smelled them all. After this he looked rather foolish, began to
laugh and came up to the tree to which I was locked, saying:
‘“‘I’m a bonehead and don’t know how to apologize to you for this
deal, but I thought I had a cinch. I’m a deputy sheriff of this
county, and I’ve been laying around here for two days to catch a
smooth whiskey peddler who floats down here where it’s bone
dry from the wet country in Missouri, jugging for cat with his jugs
nearly full of whiskey, and when I saw you drifting along after that
line of jugs, I’d a bet my head on a sure thing.”

The Twilight Trout

By RoBErT B. PECK

HERE is a lake in the Laurentians that has its counterpart

in every angler’s memory. Black as polished ebony are its

waters in the glow of sunset and the smouldering dawn.
Rockbound shores rim it and from their crannies spring
slender birchlings and twisted, gnomelike cedars. In the farther
ranks dark hemlocks and spruce march steadily over the ridges to
the blue ranges beyond. At the extremity of a boulder-strewn point
a select company of pines whispers lofty secrets through the years.
Remote, aloof, almost forbidding in its dignity, the lake shelters

in its deeps a tribe of worthy trout. Black-backed, olive-flanked
with scarlet jewels set cunningly in gold and darker scrolls, their
rush upon their prey is swift but cunningly checked at the moment
of impact. Cleaving upward with the speed of light they barely
dent the surface with their snapping jaws. There is no unseemly

31

splashing when the trout of the Lake of Memory go forth to feed—
just a vanishing dimple here and there on the lake’s placidity.

Such a miniature vortex twinkled for an instant just astern of
the canoe that slid like a shadow through the gloom. The face of
Michel as he brought the craft to an automatic quivering halt was
expressionless. Only a dwindling band of orange above the western
hills told where the sun had gone; the portage was blind by broad
daylight and beset with treacherous witchhopple. But instinc-
tively and heedless of delay and discomfort that might be involved,
Michel steadied the canoe for the cast.

The white wings of a plump-bodied coachman hovered for an
unforgetable instant above the spot while his team-mate, a
Parmachene Belle, well-nigh invisible in the gathering shadows,
straightened out the leader beyond. With the daintiest of splashes
they took the water, hesitated and began their jerky progress
canoeward. Michel’s tense muscles relaxed almost imperceptibly
as the coachman drew a blank and his eyes focussed on the satellite
of scarlet and gold.

Not a splash broke the silence but suddenly the tail fly vanished;
a fathom of line was whipped off the reel with a shrieking z-z-i-i-ip;
the rod bowed to its task and the line etched rapid serpentines on
the water.

“Un gross!”’ grunted Michel and spat interestedly, taut as the
rod itself and oblivious to the deepening night.

Cautiously he edged the canoe this way and that, now baffling
a sudden rush to double under the craft, now stealing up and
retrieving a few feet of line. Every such manoeuvre, however,
intensified and renewed the vigor of the fighter in the depths. This
way and that he bolted only to be turned at last by the elastic but
inexorable strain.

Finally he floated sullenly upward. Now one broad flank and
now the other tilted to the remnant of the day so that the burnished
orange beneath flashed and vanished alternately. Stealthily
Michel dipped the net, gently he moved it forward, straightening
its folds in its slow progress through the water. He bent forward
on one knee, a hand upon the thwart and his entire being con-
centrated on that flashing, lazily approaching shape.

““Z-z-i-i-ip!’? warned the reel again and again the line cut
circles which left a tiny tracery of bubbles in their wake.

Michel spat without inflection but kept his net in the water and
a hopeful eye on the vagaries of the line. A lunge which careened
the canoe, a sudden recovery with a gleam of triumph in the deep-

32

set eyes of Michel and, amid a profane splashing in the silence and
a sudden flopping, the struggle ended. With a swift motion Michel
held out the fish at arm’s length for admiration, ejaculated ‘‘Un
Gros!”’ seized his paddle and started for the portage at a speed
which imparted the motion of a rocking chair to the canoe.

To complete the perfection of the moment a white-throated
sparrow grieved drowsily for Canada and as the canoe churned past
the whispering pines on the point a star gleamed through the tufted
branches and shone back riotously for an instant in the swirl behind
Michel’s paddle.

A Reward of Merit

By E. E. SHOEMAKER

HE last afternoon of a strenuous fortnight had arrived and

we welcomed it. My chum and I, two unsophisticated

schoolma’ms, had blindly consented to take care of twenty-

five children from the metropolis in the first of the fresh-air
camps at Oneida Lake, N. Y. And it was some job, believe me.
I had always thought that teaching school was the most nerve-
racking occupation, but it is hardly a circumstance compared with
the distraction caused by having twenty-five youngsters of
unmanageable age dumped upon your hands and told to go to it.
They certainly did. But at last the two weeks had passed and, as
the youngsters climbed upon the big hayracks for the trip to the
station, we saw with pleasure that none were maimed, drowned, or
killed, and but two hours remained before we, too, would be leaving
for our homes in the neighboring city.

What a contrast from the noise and confusion of the restless
youngsters to the peacefulness of the present. We hardly knew
what to do with ourselves, so wandered down to the dock at the
shore of the lake which had always seemed so near but which until
now, we had had no chance of visiting. It seemed so restful, and
quiet, and invigorating here, with the waves splashing and the
wind blowing. Uninvited, we climbed into a trim little skiff to get
nearer the water and presently my chum picked up the oars and
started slowly rowing through the pads and rushes. At my feet lay
a trolling spoon and line and almost unconsciously I unwound five
or six feet of line and let the spoon trail in the water. Alice had

33

hardly taken a dozen strokes before the spoon got caught on a
submerged log which gave my arm an awful jerk and I shouted for
her to stop the boat. When she failed to do so I gave a tremendous
yank to loosen the hook when it snapped up suddenly into the boat
bringing with it a big greenish fish with huge jaws which threatened
to throw us out and at the same time break the small boards of the
boat as it rattled and thumped about upon the bottom.

In my eagerness to keep him I tried to cover him with my
umbrella and in less than a minute it was a twisted mass of rags
and wire. Seeing this, Alice shouted, ‘‘Throw the beast out,” but
the mere suggestion made me so angry that I threw my jacket over
him so that he would not get away and then tried to sit upon and
hold him with my hands and knees. Within a few minutes my coat
was a mass of ribbons and my skirt was slit and torn; so were my
stockings, while my hands and ankles were scratched and bleeding.
But I was so determined to have that fish that I think I would have
killed anyone who tried to take it away from me.

After an eternity, as it seemed to me, Alice came to sufficiently
to pull for the shore and, as soon as the boat stranded, she jumped
out into water nearly up to her knees. As soon as I could I followed
suit, dragging the big fish with me and out upon the grass, for I
couldn’t lift him, and believe me, we must have been some sight.
Alice, with her nice clean lawn all muddy and bedraggled, running
for her very life to get away from the beast, and I with my skirt all
tattered and torn, charging pell-mell after her, the huge fish dragging
along behind with the trolling spoon still in his mouth. When we
got back to the door of the camp, hardly fifteen minutes after
starting, we were the center of an excited crowd, everyone wanting
to know what we did, and how we did it, and all that we knew was
that we did it.

The owner of the skiff offered us ten, then fifteen, and at last
twenty-five dollars for our catch—a fine thirty-three pound muscal-
lounge, but it was not for sale. We did, however, postpone our
return for one day so that all of the campers could have a share of
our baked pike with us,—for Shakespere says:

Not what we have, but what we share,
The gift without the giver is bare.

34

The Desecration of the Pool

By T. McB. F.

ID you ever hear of the greenhorn who caught the big
fish at the Upper Dam?” It was Uncle Bill, who had
guided in the Rangeley Lake region for some twenty
odd years and was famous for his stories, as well as his

prowess, throughout a great part of the State of Maine.

We all moved our chairs a little closer and sat drawing on our
pipes, looking from Bill to the fire and back again. We had been
talking about the bull luck that some men sometimes have.

Bill went on. ‘‘It may have been luck or it may have been a
fool fish that was obstinate enough to want what no one had in
his tackle box. This happened at the Upper Dam of the Rangeleys
while I was guiding. Men used to come there from all over, just
to cast a fly over the fish they might never catch. Some had come
regularly for years, whether they had luck or not. They were all
sportsmen and loved and respected the speckled trout. They’d
sit there casting all day long, with the best of rods and the finest
flies that money could buy. The fish were there, too. You’d see
them roll, big fellows as long as your arm.

‘‘Well, gentlemen, one day along came a greenhorn. You should
have seen him! There he was, going to try for a self-respecting,
God-fearing square-tail with a dollar rod, a tin reel and a Par-
machene Belle as long as your finger. One of the boys went up to
him, but this man knew the game, or thought he did. He didn’t
need a guide. He stumbled into a boat and rowed out, and threw
his anchor, with a splash, right into the middle of the pool. Then
he started whipping his dollar rod and clicking his tin reel, while
his Parmachene Belle began flying over our heads looking like a
poll-parrot that didn’t know where to go. Finally it lit in the
water. Soon there was a great swirl, then a speckled side and a
square-tail and we all knew that he had one of the gamiest fish
that live in fresh water on his queer tackle. He began fighting
back just as hard as the fish fought him. ‘Give him line, give him
line!’ we all yelled at him. ‘Not a d—d inch will I give him!’
the greenhorn hollered back. ‘Play him, play him!’ we shouted
again. ‘Not on your life!’

“Tt was the queerest fight I ever saw. Here was this new-
comer treating a trout as though it were a wild steer. And how it
fought! Jumping, then sounding, then up again, making the

35

water fairly boil, trying its darnedest to shake out that enormous
fly. Then before the fight was fairly started the fish was in his
boat, about as lively as ever, flopping from one end to the other,
and the greenhorn after him, with his big knife flashing. He
jabbed and slashed and pounded ’till there wasn’t a kick or flop
left in that once beautiful trout.

“He then had the nerve to hold up his gory victim and say:
‘Men, that’s the way to catch fish.’

“The greenhorn carried his trout to the club house. There it
tipped the scales at a little over five pounds.

“““T want him stuffed,’ he said to one of the men. ‘You can’t
mount that fish after the way you’ve cut it up.’ ‘No matter. I'll
catch a bigger one.’ I don’t need to tell you that as far as I know
he never had such luck again.

“While all this was going on the old sportsmen were leaving
the pool disgusted with the proceedings. It took all the life out
of the man I was guiding. He just said: ‘Bill, pull up the anchor
and row me in. I’ve had enough for one day.’ ”’

The Legend of the Quananiche

By J. CRAWFORD MAXWELL

ONG years ago along the reaches of the Penobscot, dwelt
the Indians of that name. Wah-tee-tah, a princess of the
tribe, was one of the happy ornaments of that picturesque
race.

She was named Wah-tee-tah, which means Wildflower, after
the manner of all Indian babies, because the first thing her mother
saw upon emerging from the maternal wigwam, was a gorgeous
mass of wildflowers that had just opened to the morning.

As Wah-tee-tah grew up, her love of wildflowers developed to
extremes, and one day, as usual, the morning sun found her roam-
ing the banks of the Penobscot, gathering and adorning herself
with her favorite flowers. Daisies, buttercups and violets, golden-
rod and evergreen bedecked her in glorious profusion.

By Sourdnahunk Falls she sat down to rest and rearrange her
virgin vesture. Just then her sensitive ears heard voices, and,
glancing toward the river, she discovered a pale-face and an In-
dian in heated dispute. The alien was fishing and with him were

36

From
“THE LEGEND OF THE OUANANICHE”
Page 36

fl eT ga»,
| Mit ill.

se Hii

“‘The courageous princess reached her iover but only to perish
with him in the treacherous falls.”’

many hungry dogs. Inexperienced fisherman that he was, he
could only catch inexperienced fishes—the small fry that an Indian
disdained to destroy. These small fish the angler was feeding to
his hungry dogs.

Wildflower’s brave—for the Indian was her lover—was voicing
his disgust at this proceeding, from his canoe in mid-stream.

‘‘Heap nice meat to throw to dogs big enough to hunt their
own food,” said the Indian.

“Tf I choose to feed fishes to my dogs, that is my business,”’
retorted the pale-face.

‘Take away all the babies, bye-and-bye no mother fish to give
us more,’’ returned the occupant of the canoe.

‘‘When this stream is fished out there are other rivers beyond,”
and the fisherman with a nod indicated the West.

“That’s beyond the sunset, but Katahdin is our camping-
ground and you are destroying our fish and food,” said the Indian.

“Then I’ll leave you my dogs to make stew for your tribe,”
was the retort of the white man.

This remark, uttered in sneering sarcasm, piqued the Indian
and in an instant a whirling tomahawk pinned the fisherman’s
tunic to a tree. In return, the enraged angler discharged his pis-
tol at his assailant and a leaden bullet ricocheted from the red man’s
bracelet, tearing a gash in his arm and a hole in the bottom of the
canoe. The swiftly flowing stream soon carried the sinking craft
and its disabled occupant rapidly toward the falls below, and,
although the pale-face made efforts to save him, his ability was
unequal to the task.

All this Wildflower had witnessed. As the canoe went spinning
by, she ran to the river and plunged to the aid of her lover. Her
efforts to save him would have been successful had not the cata-
ract been so near. The courageous princess reached her lover but
only to perish with him in the treacherous falls.

Now the white chief,—he was governor of all that district,—
sorry for what he had done, sent this edict broadcast: That all men
should observe to retain only those fish that had attained mature
size, so that the species should be preserved and the Indians’ fish
supply be established.

At this time the ouananiche was colorless as a smelt, but when
Wildflower and her brave were drowned, the flowers that en-
shrouded her were taken by the current, and, as if in sorrow at
the loss of their princess, they gathered into a compact mass of
color and sank like a stone at the bottom of the falls. No human

39

eye can see them there, but every little ouananiche when he gets
big enough to travel, visits the palette of the Indian princess, and
each little trout paints himself as with colors of the rainbow—the
gold and green and rose and hidden hues of woodland flowers, and
each silver spot is a princess’ tear.

This is the legend of the ouananiche. His colors are to remind
those who catch him of the memorial of wildflowers that lies be-
neath the waters of the Penobscot, bearing testimony to the In-
dian who died for clean sport, and the princess who roams with
him the happy hunting-grounds among wildflowers and streams
filled with ouananiche.

Fishing for Health’s Sake

By PAUL FUGLER

AVING suffered from a nervous breakdown I was advised

to take a complete rest, and a fishing trip was suggested.

I concluded that a right rip-snorting, exhilarating time

was needed, so I decided to go where the hand of man

never set foot. My intuition directed the way to a fine stream
beautifully located amidst the forests of Central Australia.

To reach this secluded spot I purchased an airship, and within
three weeks I reached the desired stream.

Immediately making observations I found only one kind of
fish, the ravenous muskowog, which is exceedingly game.

In the breeding season all the young fish have to be taught the
art of swimming. This is necessary because the water is so crystal-
clear, that the young and inexperienced fish cannot distinguish
whether their heads are above or below the surface of the water,
consequently millions of young fish lose their lives by asphyxiation.

Although the muskowog lives by eating the smaller fish it is
wonderful how exceedingly civilized it is. Parent fish never eat
their offspring, but raid neighboring pools. This information was
easily obtained by observation, for I discovered that the features
of the little fellows resembled those of their parents.

In one deep pool I located a very large muskowog which had
grown far away beyond the size of the rest, so large as to be
immune from attack. The cause of his enormous size I will relate.

One day two muskowogs decided at the same moment to have

40

From
“FISHING FOR HEALTH’S SAKE”
Page 40

“By a quick release of the tree the fish was yanked out.”

their breakfast off a toothsome looking fish, one commencing at the
head, and the other the tail. They touched noses at the middle of
the morsel, when a somewhat larger muskowog gobbled up the three
at one gulp. This extraordinary meal produced rapid growth.

Every fisherman can readily understand that my mind was
made up to catch this wonderful specimen.

So netting a few fifty-pound shiners for bait, and placing one on
the hook, I made a perfect cast. I was delighted to see the large
muskowog strike immediately. You can imagine my chagrin when
his nibs snipped the line in two as easily as a horse can a carrot.

Here my inventive brain came to my rescue. I flew to a sheep
fence about a thousand miles away, and clipped off about fifty
yards of stout wire which I used as a fishing line.

I now used the anchor of my airship as a hook. This was
attached to the fence wire, and, with a fresh shiner, I had no
difficulty in enticing him to again take the bait.

And what a terrific fight he put up! I found that my immense
strength was of no avail in my efforts to land him. Again I called
upon my wonderful intellect to help to solve the problem of landing
the fish.

Quick as a flash I attached the head of my airship to the main
top branch of a tall willow, and bent the boughs to the ground in
spring-like fashion. Hitching the line to the strongest bough, by
a quick release of the tree the fish was yanked out and landed in a
sandy basin about a mile from the bank.

From exposure to the tropical sun the sand of this basin was of.
stove heat, so it acted just like a huge frying pan. All I had to do
was to sprinkle pepper and salt, turn him over once, and he was
cooked toaturn. His perfect condition furnished the fat for frying.
Gathering some bread from a bread-fruit tree I thoroughly enjoyed
the meal.

I nearly forgot to say that, in order to quench my thirst, I drank
from the stream, and great was my surprise to find it to be white
wine of rare vintage. This flowed from the vineyards which dotted
the surrounding district. Coming from a prohibition district you
can easily guess that I had my fill.

Thanks to this wonderful outing, I have regained my old vigor,
and my nerves are again as steady as an oak.

43

Tarpon on Fly Tackle

By Lieut. R. W. SWEARINGEN

T was while sitting in the Strangers’ Club, at Christobal,
Canal Zone, and watching the native fishing schooners come
in, that I heard some one at a nearby table say something
about taking tarpon on fly tackle. To me the tale sounded

‘“‘fishy.”’ I would have wagered considerable that the teller held
Ananias as his patron saint, instead of St. Zeno. However, many
strange things happen in the tropics, and, calling the boy, I hastily
paid my check and departed in search of further information.

Fortunately, I happened to meet a Mr. Nichols, a gentleman
well informed upon local angling conditions, who told me of an
English sportsman, bound for South America, who stopped for a
few hours at Colon, Panama, and made a sight-seeing trip to Gatun
Lake and Dam. When two of the flood gates are opened it raises
the water in the river and spillway below the dam to a depth of
about eight feet. The secret of the tarpon is this: Gatun Lake
has been stocked with black bass, and the tarpon come up the
river to feed on the minnows that are carried over the top of the
dam. The Englishman saw the tarpon jumping. Returning to
Colon, he wired for tackle, and instead of spending a few hours,
he remained for six months. He tied his own flies, on a 5/0 hook,
with a long shank, and to which he gave local names. At his sug-
gestion, the Gatun Tarpon Club was founded, a club house erected,
and angling restricted to use of rod and reel. Fly fishing was
especially encouraged. Mr. Nichols further informed me that he
was going up to the club on the following morning, and asked if I
would care to accompany him.

Would I? Say, I had become possessed with only one desire,
to wit, to take a tarpon on a fly.

Early the next morning a launch set me ashore; I met Mr.
Nichols at the depot; and we caught the 7:15 train for Gatun.
The trip was quickly and pleasantly made, and a short walk brought
us to the club house. Others had come up the night before, and
were gathered around the breakfast table, discussing the morning
catch. Seven beautiful tarpon were laid out on the grass near
the club. It was only a few minutes’ work—the quickest shift of
clothing I ever made—to get into fishing togs and rig my tackle.

The first attempt was made by casting a black bass minnow,
hooking my first tarpon with the fourth cast, not a very large

44

one, but a vicious fighter. The water was a veritable maelstrom,
and fairly alive with tarpon and snook. Later in the day a slight
shower made its appearance, which seemed to stimulate them into
jumping. In this small stretch of water, in no place over a hun-
dred yards in width, I saw at least fifty tarpon in the air at one
time.

Later, I changed to ordinary salmon rod, fifteen-thread linen
line, and with a fly succeeded in taking two more, of about twenty
and thirty-five pounds. In the evening, when the gates were
closed, I took a thirty-pounder by casting an artificial minnow.
Others took them by casting a small piece of white cloth merely
impaled on the hook. It seemed that one could use any “‘bait,”’
but that he must have the very best of tackle. I can’t think of
any sport more exciting, and even you, seasoned angler though
you may be, if you want a real thrill, something new, and an event
that will linger long in the confines of the memory, go fly fishing
for tarpon at Gatun!

A Brief for Luminous Baits

By HUBERT C. NorTON

E was a big bass. I knew that well enough the moment
he struck my plug with that crashing, splashing sound
that always sends a thrill along one’s spine. After one
short run along the shore, he went into the air and then

came a rush which was not to be stopped as he lunged toward the
shore, despite my energetic thumbing.

The storm was over. The sun was down in a haze of purple
clouds, but a fair wind from the northeast still held and drifted my
boat. In casting from a square-end boat alone, one has no oppor-
tunity to use much finesse in manouvering. My bass with uncanny
prescience fought down-wind toward the shore. ‘‘Forty feet, sixty
feet. I must stop him before he reaches the weeds.”’ So, with fear
in my heart, I put pressure and yet more pressure on the spool of
the reel. My line was old. Soft-braided casting lines will not en-
dure forever. This one snapped within a few feet of my quarry.

In sorrow and shame for such bungling, I reeled in slowly, the
wind meanwhile blowing my boat to the edge of the weeds, whither
the bass had driven. As the end of the line came to my fingers, a

45

loud splashing some twenty feet ahead of me drew my attention.
I looked and saw a commotion going on in a dense patch of lily-
pads. Then the rippling ceased. But as I looked, I could occasion-
ally see one particular leaf vibrate in a manner not usual with lily-
pads. The thought struck home: “‘ He has my plug in his jaw and
the other hooks are fouled in the weeds.’’ More for confirmation
of this theory than for anything else, I paddled to the patch of
lily-pads and, parting them gently, looked into the black depths.
The water was shallow here, not over six feet, and my wooden
plug was luminous. Sure enough, there was my bait, and even as
I peered over the side at it, it moved slightly. Still hooked!

From my tackle-box I took a treble hook and tied it firmly to
the handle of my landing net. Then with infinite caution I lowered
this grappling tackle. Down at the bottom it was dark and no
amount of scrutiny enabled me to tell how the fish lay. So I just
thrust for the bait, hoping to catch its hooks. As I touched it a
water-spout rose in my face and when I ‘“‘came to” I saw no light
below, but was aware of a swirling in another patch of weeds. Be-
ing now determined I went there and this performance was again
enacted. Once more he escaped, and as I located him I became
convinced that my methods were wrong.

It was now almost dark and the breeze had fallen. With no
thought but to get that bass, I fixed the boat carefully to the oars
pushed into the mud bottom and, slipping off my clothes, went
overboard on the side away from the bass. Working carefully
around, I took a breath and went below. I am not an experienced
diver, but in six feet of water it was not difficult to dive to
bottom, and with a quick grab, try for the bait which looked under-
water as large as a bag of meal. My aim was true. I grasped the
bait firmly, and as the commotion began I became aware of what
I had previously overlooked; that hooks will cut human as well as
piscatorial flesh. That fish was big. He pulled me under several
times. I decided that I would let him go, but the hooks were faith-
ful. One must try this game to really appreciate my difficulties.
This way and that way we plunged and after an eternity I caught
the boat with my free hand.

After this it was only a matter of cutting out five hooks from
the palm of my hand and going home to be greeted with cries of
“Fish story!”” But on the scales that night he weighed six and a
quarter pounds—not bad for a large-mouth even. Oh, yes! I still
have that bait—I have a new line—and I also have five cute little
scars to remind me of it all.

46

At the Other Heat of the Line

By M. M. ScHEID

TROUT is intelligent but surely it knows very little of the
world outside the water, and no doubt you, like many
others, have often wondered what must be its thought
when it finds itself caught. The story, as told by this four-

pound rainbow, may give you some idea of that terrible feeling.

‘“‘One morning I was hungry and my neighbors acted as though
they hadn’t a meal for a week and I said to myself that the best look-
ing breakfast that came down stream I was going to have. I got
ready for a ‘grab’ when along came a nice big worm and before I
could say ‘thank you,’ Specks above me had the whole thing. I
became angry and I guess that I frightened all my neighbors because
when, a minute later, another fat worm came dangling, no one but
myself moved. I picked up my meal and started to say some
sarcastic thing when bing! that worm left my mouth and liked to
have ripped out a dozen teeth. I became frightened and crawled
into my den and my appetite left me almost as quickly as that worm
did and it wasn’t until evening, when I saw white flies flirting near
the water, that my appetite came back. I sampled several of these
insects and they were fine. It got a little dark and to see better and
—I’m ashamed to admit it—to get ahead of my friends, I re-
mained out in the stream and when a big white moth suddenly fell
right over my nose I grabbed it. I can’t quite remember what
happened during the next second. It seemed though, as though I
had accidentally bitten into a barbed wire and my neck cracked.
That moth was tough and had a horn that stuck through my upper
lip and I couldn’t spit out the thing and it seemed to try to get
away from me and couldn’t.

“That was ‘some strong’ bug. I simply had to pull it up stream
and then down. I tried to get under the bank but it refused to
go there and then I tried to rub it off on a root. That moth even
drew me to the surface and believe me, I made the water fly and I
made up my mind that if I got rid of the thing I’d have to stay
where I could breathe. I had often seen men and knew that a few of
my neighbors suddenly left the water when they were around and
that night I thought I saw a man near shore and that helped frighten
me. Have you any idea what capers a fellow will do when he has
some disagreeable food in his mouth, that he can’t spit out and
besides is both ‘mad’ and ‘scared’? Well, I did them all and when

47

I saw that it didn’t do any good I ‘kinda’ gave in to the thing on
my lip and I seemed to get sick. I had to rest and while doing so
that fly again drew me to the surface and when I touched the air
I suddenly made a dive and I heard something snap and though
the moth still stuck, it seemed to have suddenly died. I ‘beat’ it for
down stream and now eat in deeper water and every time I catch a
moth I wonder what that terrible ‘darn’ was I heard from shore
when I suddenly got relief from that cussed bug.”

Golf Balls as Bass Bait

By E. F. LAPHAM

HE following is one of the most unique fishing incidents
that has ever been my privilege to experience.
The summer of 1917 was passed by my family and my-
self at Medicine Lake, Three Lakes, Wisconsin. To my joy
a telegram was received saying my friend, W. C. Whitney of Ohio,
was on his way to the Pacific Coast and would drop in on us for a
few days’ fishing. We met him on schedule and found he had his
golf clubs with him, as he expected to play with friends at the
Coast. It was immediately decided to arrange a temporary golf
ground. We laid out a sort of fairway up a trail through the
woods and made a sand putting-green in front of the camp. As
the camp was located on a point some forty feet above the water,
we did our driving off into the lake with floaters, which my son
would retrieve in the rowboat and toss them back on the bank.
Now for the fish story.

One morning we started our driving match, driving the golf
balls off into the lake, and one of the balls disappeared entirely
after it struck the water with the usual splash. I suggested we had
made a mistake and used a sinker, when suddenly a fish was seen
floating, evidently ‘‘all in.” My son rowed up and lifted it in his
hands, and then to our surprise held up a good-sized black bass
and said: ‘‘Here’s your golf ball.’”’ This proved to be true, for
using his knife he soon recovered the lost ball which the bass had
struck at as it hit the water. The ball had stuck in its mouth or
throat so it could not use its gills and consequently it had either
suffocated or drowned.

48

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