va ds dahnbedebahahehaheiotebetahehaiol MEN | HAVE FISHED WITH SKETCHES OF CHARACTER AND INCIDENT WITH ROD AND GUN, FROM CHILDHOOD TO MANHOOD; FROM THE KILLING OF LITTLE FISHES AND BIRDS TO A BUFFALO HUNT. By FRED MATHER (‘“KEGO-E-KAY’’). Author of “Adirondack Fishes,” “Trouting on the Bigosh,” A Gander Pullin Arkansaw,” “The Death of Pongo” and Other Stories. WITH PORTRAITS, “Wor I had strength, youth, gaiety— A port, not like to this ye see, But as smooth as all is rugged now; For time, and care, and war have ploughed My very,soul from out my brow.” —NMazeppa. New YORE: FOREST AND STREAM PUBLISHING CO. 1897, 2% ¢! NN ff \ f| 19 jj \ s ff : i Lao tehth 4 Pi iN ’ Nt bis ve 4 f ett Prato) { rie x ‘ 1 k DI4IS COPYRIGHT, 1897, BY THE FOREST AND STREAM PUBLISHING CO. CONTENTS. REE BN WOOD caehjocs dalaarte’es aicus cle Seraiueneidare aig eiaje a sie! a a My First Fish. EOD Nt ARPS ERODE, lec cet wiaiv wa Suc cw aalarays dias a'etelsia scvle/lersle 0/6 6 20 Bobbing for Eels. EEDA AEE WV GID) ic dine oe Waaweatind sk wasaccesiec vee wduace + 30 First Night in Camp. Bee tas YBa EG Ee fc lie tees des Fie Ciavai ia Wath lawn eee alee eialals date 41 My Early Teacher of Woodcraft. REC GEG ID AVY SORDD fancticrnig Saree eieraies- s/n aeeain'e Searels sane 54 My First Trout. MATOR 'GEORGE. SS: DAWSON |. cpigcs ye cie dstcvsseueaues 64 CPG WV s,) SE OE NGS) caviar wia’sinsic, Vain siniejow die caveate walens 67 My First Deer. GOLONEL/, CHARLES. EH. RAYMOND .gees dis sceennss 79 Turtles, Setters and Ducks. BER EEE CIC RCV AY hESC) Yoo she cia oe wie c'ec we bee Oral dic eb anisre nets 890 Michigan in ’49—My First Turkey. eee, Ric Av WOOD soiedic hank dui ole wefaddlenviclalew eu Sut 102 Striped Bass in Fresh Water—Early Greenbush. Par CR MEAT EEN MATE DOBB'S atcnodoe cenies gals cose 114 Skating, Ice-Boating and Camp Cookery. Rte es UL VOL, |, EL OELSESIM pate cd puta we.atacie le geld se vis ta bla 127 Spearing Eels and Trapping Rabbits. eae ye ek Ada) DAA ER BIW cei lus diciate be aswrate piace vin) Slate. oc wrehandls ae vane 141 a Trap and Rifle Shooting—The War Cloud. Peer URINE US dae Was aan eUiadciedes Gaels esduacwias 156 Duck Shooting and a Tragedy. + CONTENTS. CHA RISES AGU GIN ccetcnm entemieit csv wwii aia niemiere iat rtaars 169 Gigging Fish in Wisconsin—Shooting a Deer with Wooden Plugs. CORPORAL - HENRY Re NANTES: vials s oie sneve's lormre sans 184 A ’Coon Hunt—Fishing the ‘“Sloos” of the Missis- sippi. . ANTOINE GARDAPE Bits tecaine apsitsle aitetcteatoe « siereidietaters 200 Canto I.—Trapping Fur—Killing a Wolverine. ANTOINE’ GARDA PEE ae tainiemti ieteiaein elaine late t mietesaeretete 217 Canto IIl.—Another Wolverine—Snow Blind. ANTOINE GARDAPEE: cecb. die catetaerrs sacalellelaiataietenietste 234 Canto III.—Christmas in the Forest. SERGEANT FRANK. NEA VEILEE science stucco saminnice 251 Fish, Coons and Pawpaws. TAY-BUN-AN E-JE-GAY js hela cats wietciels sie onesie wines miata ate 268 In Northern Minnesota—Fishing Through Ice. US IN EIN = Ge WAY. soft cle-u:cin/p seta mainte olivate incal eslalets ta lata raf eke ete 286 A Muskrat Feast—The Trip Home on the Ice. SERGEANT ‘WILLIAM PATTERSON (sens cits anapeaues sien 303 A “Bad Man,” a Load of Fish and a Dead Child. AVILLIAM “WARREN, (o 5 ieicu's sulin es alsiein bie sclaieletatl aman 317 Shooting Fish in Kansas — Bachelor’s Hall — The Border War. PANS oly CRIES u's are Sai usn se siaeve a gaits: oon emai pees ie nala eee 336 Skittering for Pike—Legerdemain—My Only Buf- falo Hunt. A CHRIST MAS WITH) “OLD: PORT) ch uwicls dau sieetlen 353 Return of the Wanderer and the Feast Port Tyler Made in Honor of the “Jayhawker’” — Stories Told by Port, Billy Bishop, Mat Miller and Others Until Daylight Came Through the Windows. PORTRAITS. Bee tos ROAD ERIS Car eava gies teas duatecades .....Frontispiece From a photograph in 1897. Bees EB NVOO Distt icaneva vie wee ews wale veleev aus cscs 16 PsP Riak, DAWSON So. (ih wcer liad sede Ga Meu Rete PPE S es 56 MAR (GHORGE 'S: DAWSON, oi didscascy eRe 64 COLONEL CHARLES H. RAYMOND......... daisies 80 is Saal We SH) A 3. U9 2 2 a ny nea pn ee ne 112 GUNDBRAT MARTING MILIGE RR. cG) aeeadsecte cuit cots 120 Sritek TAO REAR EN: ccacetcattns cc letbaaancsWonecn una’ 144 RoC EUW VEAL EER Be aia. gala aie UR MG Bog ard GeMMMtS ic orsihi-d ental she eh 352 From photograph in 1864, as First Lieutenant Bat- tery L, Seventh New York Heavy Artillery. A WORD WITH THE READER. TuESsE sketches originally appeared in the Forest and Siream. Read between the lines, and at times in them, will be found the wanderings of a boy who had no further object in view than to be in the woods and on the waters, and who had no taste for anything like the harness of civilization. During the years of vagabondizing many things oc- curred which at the time seemed to deserve little notice, but subsequently grew into pleasant memories; and I be- gan to write them up, naturally expecting that my imme- diate relatives and personal friends would read them with some interest. I was surprised and gratified to find how many strangers said pleasant things of them, and to know that there was a demand for them in book form. The present volume comprises the twenty-four chap- ters which appeared between July 11 and Dec. 26, 1896. Other sketches of “Men I Have Fished With” have been printed since, and at this writing, in October, 1897, the series is in progress. I have aimed to make a sketch of the boy or man of whom I wrote, so that the reader, gentle or otherwise, would know him, as I thought I did, and I find myself tell- ing how to bob for eels, camp out and sleep in barns, kill deer with wooden plugs, taking my first trout on a worm, hunting turtles with Colonel Raymond in boyhood and reviewing his famous setters in after years, shooting tur- - keys,spearing eels through ice,and many other things too numerous to mention, up to the time when I was glad to get back home. 8 A WORD WITH THE READER. My lesson had been learned in that dearest of schools, but it took more years than with apter scholars. Yet I have never regretted the cost of the education. The earlier incidents recorded took place in Green- bush, N. Y., and on the Popskinny Creek. I have outlived them both. The creek was merely an arm of the Hudson reaching behind an island, and water no longer flows through it. I tried to get at its correct name, but failed. Mr. A. C. Stott, of Stottville, N. Y., writes that on a 1777 map it is spelled “Popscheny,” and that older writers give “Palp-Sikenekoitas,” while O’Callaghan, in his “History of the New Netherlands,” speaks of the “Papsknee.” Col- onel David A. Teller, whose family has owned a farm on its banks for over a century, gives me other spellings, and I’ve seen it as “Popsquinea,” therefore I have fallen into the habit of spelling it as we boys pronounced it. It makes no difference now, it does not exist. Greenbush is dead in name only. It is now a city of the Empire State, having been consolidated with East Albany, Bath and other places, under the name of Rens- selaer—confound the vandals who had no regard for the historic name honored in history by Fort Crailo, which is the oldest building now standing in America, and by Washington’s headquarters on the McCulloch farm, on the heights above the village. So, one by one, the columns supporting the arches of our memories are swept away by a younger generation, which cares nothing for them. They are falling fast. Men who are now reckless boys will live to realize this. A year ago I made a pilgrimage to the old scenes, and I regret it. I was a stranger ina strange land. The tan-yard was gone; the nut orchard was filled with cottages, and the trees had gone where good trees go. Noone likes to out- A WORD WITH THE READER. 9 live his cherished world or wants to know the holder of his birthplace and the intruders in the haunts of his boyhood. I will go there no more; I prefer to have my memories left undisturbed. The “City of Rensselaer” may grow and prosper, but Greenbush has passed away. I hope the reader may find as much pleasure in these memories of boyhood as I did in writing them. Bo ME REUBEN WOOD. MY FIRST FISH. made his home in Syracuse, N. Y., was well known throughout the State, and it was my good fortune to have him as an instructor in the art of angling in earliest boyhood. We were born in the then small vil- lage of Greenbush (opposite Albany), he in December, 1822, and I eleven years later. Almost every man who has passed the half-century milestone on life’s journey loves to imitate Lot’s wife and look over his shoulder, and usually the retrospect is pleas- ant because we do not remember clearly; we conjure up the roses in the pathway, and the small thorns are indis- tinct in the distance; a faint humming of the bees whose honey we stole brings no remembrance of the penalty paid for it; the wound of the sting is cured by the honey— in memory, at least. Poor indeed is the man of fiity who has no wealth of retrospect and who thinks the punish- ment of Lot’s wife was fitted to the crime! It was cruelly unjust, and in compensation at this late day she should be sainted perhaps with the name and title of Saint Salina. Here I pause to ask if there is really any such thing as an occult cerebration which caused my pen to turn to thoughts of Lot’s wife while writing an apology for look- ing back at the boyhood of a citizen of Syracuse, N. Y., the great salt-producing city of the State? There are men who never could have been boys—en- _gaged in boyish sports and had a boy’s thoughts. Every one has known such men. Men who must have been at least fifty years old when they were born—if that event il Al HIS noted sportsman, who for nearly half a century 12 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. ever happened to them—and have no sort of sympathy for a boy nor his ways; crusty old curmudgeons who never burned their fingers with a firecracker or played hookey from school to go a-fishing. They may be very endurable in a business way, but are of no possible use as fishing companions. I speak by the card, for I’ve been in the woods with them. Reuben Wood was a boy, and was one to me as long as he lived. We were boys together, he being a big boy when I was but a little one; he was at our house a great deal, and is among the earliest of memories. He was “Reub” all through life to all his familiars, and they were many. It was a summer day, and I was some six or eight summers old, when Reub came down the street with some fish that he had caught in a stream then the northern boundary of the village, but now in it and fishless. After much solicitation he agreed to let me in the party next day—Bruin and me. Now, Bruin was a big Newfound- land dog belonging to my father which Reub had taught to pick me up whenever he said, “Bruin, go fetch Fred,” no matter what screams, kicks and protests his burden . made, and this was one of Reub’s jokes which I failed to appreciate. We started, Bruin and I, in high glee. Reub cut some poles, rigged the lines, floats and hooks and put on the worms, and he soon had a perch, a monster it seemed then and does yet, while the sunfish that tried to run away with my float and which Reub helped to land probably weighed more than the grocer’s scales could tell; it must have been as big as 100 modern ones, and Reub said “it was as big as a piece of chalk.” Such was my first experience in angling, as clear in memory as if only a week ago. A little pond turtle stuck his head up near the float, REUBEN WOOD. 13 looked at it and us, and paddled to the bottom in the fun- niest way. Reub called it a “skillypot,” but he had funny names for everything. Then I caught a perch, actually bigger than the sunfish, and a new world seemed to open; but the spines of the fish cut my hand and the world was not so bright. Five fish came to my lot in all, but Reub had about twenty—some perch, sunfish, two bullheads and aneel. He said that I let the fish eat the worms off. I saw a turtle climb on a log while Reub was up the bank after more worms, and I went out on the log to get it, but the turtle slid into the water, and so did I. A scream brought Reub, who whistled for Bruin and ordered him to “Fetch Fred,” and he did. Oh, the dripping of clothes and the splashing of shoes as we went home, and the fear- ful tale of a turtle who wouldn’t wait to be caught! This last seemed the greatest cause of grief and afforded Reub and other boys a text for teasing, which they worked to an annoying extent, and it was long before he would take me fishing again, saying, “No, you'll go diving for tur- tles.” This occurred about 1840, and Reub referred to it the last time I saw him, in 1883. At this time Greenbush was a very quaint little village on the upper Hudson, whose connection with the outside world was by the Albany stage to Boston and by ferry to Albany. No railroad entered it, and in fact the only one at that time in the whole State of New York ran from Albany to Schenectady, and hauled its cars to the top of the hill by a stationary engine before hooking on the light locomotive. The place was favorable for the devel- opment of character, unhampered by the conventionalities which come from contact with outside people, and Reu- ‘ben grew to manhood there and retained a quaint sim- plicity all his life, a rugged, honest nature, whom it was refreshing to know, and was a lovable man to meet. Ii, 14 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. as a boy, he ever indulged in forays on the fruit and melon patches of the farmers, the fact is unknown to me. That I did is certain, but the disparity of years forbade com- radeship in such nocturnal pleasures. He was large, strong and heavy of movement, with a deep chest voice, even when a boy, that was remarkable. His brother Ira, nearer my age, resembled him in this and other particu- lars, and in both there was an air of honesty and truthful- ness, not so frequent in boys, which was fully borne out in their characters as men. In after years I had a joke on Reub which was orig- inally on me as a boy, but later knowledge reversed it. With some other boys I had been fishing away up the hill in the pond of the locally famous “red mill,” and had seen a pair of wood ducks alight upon a tree. We somehow knew that they were wild ducks, but had no idea that the term included more than one kind, for at that day we only knew one sort of tame ducks. To see a duck alight on a tree was strange, and I told Reub of it; and he spread the incredible story, for he knew nothing of wood ducks, and the laugh was on me. “Seen any ducks lightin’ on trees lately?” was a common and annoying salutation, and years later the question was turned on Reub. I fished with him many times as a boy, never after he left Green- bush for Syracuse, in 1852; but we met occasionally after 1876, when thrown together at fairs and fly-casting tour- naments, and he seemed to be the same boy that somehow had gray hair. The picture of him gives an excellent idea of his manly face, but the cigar I do not recognize. This is not re- markable, because he used from a dozen to twenty each day, and there are people who might not recognize his picture without a cigar of some kind. The badge upon his corduroy coat is a certificate that he is a member of REUBEN WOOD. 15 the Onondaga Fishing Club, of Syracuse, which was al- ways represented at the State Sportsmen’s tournaments. Take a good look at him! That kind, honest face would be a passport anywhere. To me he was always the same lovable boy to whom I looked up as guide, philosopher and friend on my first fishing trip away back in the forties. I think I am a better man for knowing Reub Wood when he was a big boy andIachild. From him I learned that the world was round—‘“rounder than a marble,” he said— and I saw that the sky was the upper half and that we were inside the world; if he knew better he never ex- plained the matter. Reuben’s humor was manifested in the use of strange words, which he probably manufactured, as I never heard them from any other person. A bad knot in a fish line was a “wrinkle-hawk,” an excellent thing was “just exe- bogenus,” a big fish was “an old codwalloper,” and a long-stemmed pipe was “a flugemocker.” What a blank page is a boy’s memory that such things written on it remain indelible for over half a:century when more im- portant ones have faded! The name of Reub Wood con- jures up these trifling things, which, if heard ten years ago, would have been forgotten. But he had such a strong individuality that a person who only met him for ten minutes would be impressed by it, and would know him in after years; what wonder that he should carve his personality on the mind of a child? Impressions of other men and boys in that small village are also quite distinct, and, as is usual in such places, there is more profanity and obscenity heard by a boy than in cities, for the tough boy in small places excels in such things, and it seems to me that he was worse then than now. But the worst that I ever heard Reub say was “Gosh hang it,” under the provocation of having to cut a fish hook out of his thumb. 16 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. His mind was as pure as his life, and that is more than can be said of many who live straight enough, but have to resist temptation frequently. A man is not so much to be judged by his actions as by his thoughts, if you only knew them, and Reub’s thoughts were his spoken words. In Greenbush he was employed in the bakéry of Jonas Whiting, where he learned the mysteries of bread and cakes, and when he went to Syracuse he blossomed out as a caterer for balls and parties, and then established a business in fishing tackle, now carried on under the name of “Reuben Wood’s Sons.” His old cash book is still extant, and was not only what its name implied, but was day book, journal and ledger all in one, with a margin for a weather record which contained such items as “Gone hunting,” “Went after ducks,” “Gone a-fishing,” etc. This is indefinite, and one wonders what the result may have been until we strike the entry: “Wood returned from Piseco with 250 lbs. of trout.” In that early day, in the fifties, Onondaga Lake abounded in pickerel and eels, and Reub and his compan- ions often made a night of it, taking them with torch and spear, as was the custom of the time, and the catch went to their friends and the poor. When this mode of fishing became unpopular and unlawful, in later years, Reuben was one of the foremost in suppressing all kinds of fishing that the law forbade; but at the time of which we speak there was neither law on the subject nor public sentiment against spearing. He followed the custom of the day, merely drawing the line at fishing on Sunday. A chum of Reub’s was Mr. Charles Wells, of Wells, Fargo & Co.’s Express, and they went shooting and fish- ing when the spirit moved. Mr. Wells had not only all the railroad transportation necessary, but could have trains stopped anywhere in the woods if necessary, night REUBEN WOOD. REUBEN WOOD. 17 or day, by flag or fire signal. This brings a sigh, not of envy, but merely a wish that such conditions existed to- day and I was “in it,” as the saying goes. One day in the fall of 1857 a report came to Mr. Wells that there were “rafts of ducks” on Cayuga Lake, one of those numerous large lakes of Western New York lying . some thirty miles west of Syracuse, and a famous one for ducks. He told Reub just in time for him to gather his muzzle-loader and ammunition and get the next train going to Cayuga, at the foot of the lake via the “old road” of the New York Central R. R., a road then so slow that it took the best part of a day to get there. Wells had his camping outfit, and they camped for the night. As Reub told me the story years afterward, daylight found him in an old dugout, the only semblance of a boat at hand, while Wells had a good place on the shore. The ducks were flying down the lake and Wells had killed several, and was signaling him to come and pick them up, when a great flock of bluebills came up the stream and turned directly over Reub’s head. As he let both barrels go the dugout somehow let him go into ice-cold water, but he hung on to his gun and got ashore chilled to the bone, and took the first train for Syracuse, where he traded his gun and equipments for a Knight’s Templar badge and other things, and from that day foreswore the gun and devoted his energies to wielding the rod. About this time Mr. Wells learned to fish with the fly and taught Reuben the art, to which he became devoted. It was long after this that I met Reuben, the occasion being the tournaments of the New York State Associa- tion for the Protection of Fish and Game, where he was a frequent competitor in the fly-casting tournaments, but never would allow himself or his brother Ira to win first prize because of a chivalric idea that another competitor— sor 18 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. to whom he always deferred—should not be beaten. Either of them could outcast the other man, whose hog- gish nature never allowed him to acknowledge the knightly courtesy—if he had the capacity to appreciate the sacrifice. Not until the State Association held its tournament at Brighton Beach, Coney Island, in June, 1881, did Reuben Wood ever have a chance to cast un- hampered by his sentiment. Here he had a new competi- tor with a great local reputation, who had never cast in a State tournament before. This was in the two-handed salmon rod contest, and Reuben won the first prize, val- ued at $50, with a cast of 110ft. His brother Ira came second, with ro1ft. Harry Prichard cast grft., and F. P. Dennison g4ft. All but Prichard were members of the Onondaga Fishing Club, of Syracuse, and cast with the same rod—a split-bamboo, won by Reuben in the tourna- ment at Buffalo in 1878; length, 17ft.1 in. As there was an allowance of 5ft. for every foot of rod in length, Mr. Prichard was allowed oft. 10 in. because his greenheart rod (made by himself) was tft. 1oin. shorter than the one used by the others; hence his amended record of gr1ft. had an allowance of oft. 10in., making it 1ooft. 10in., giving him third prize over Dennison. © In 1883 Prof. Spencer F. Baird appointed Reuben to take charge of the angling department of the American display at the International Fisheries Exposition in Lon- don, an appointment of which he was justly proud, as he wrote me in a farewell letter, and on June 11 he took part in the English fly-casting tournament at the Welch Harp, where he won first in salmon casting with an 18ft. split- bamboo rod, scoring 108ft., Mr. Mallock casting 1o5ft. with an 18ft. greenheart rod. In the single-handed trout contest he won first with 82}ft. over four competitors. In a contest with two-handed trout rods, a thing unknown REUBEN WOOD. 19 in America, Mr. Mallock won first with 1o5ft., and Mr. Wood took second prize with 1o2ft. gin. His many trophies in the tournaments in Central Park, New York City, are familiar to readers of Forest and Stream. He died at his home in Syracuse on Feb. 16, 1884, in his sixty-second year. Mr. R. B. Marston, editor of the English Fishing Gazette, said of him: “I know many an angler in this country will feel sad at hearing genial, jolly, lovable ‘Uncle Reub’ has gone to his long rest. During his stay in this country he never failed to make friends of all who came in contact with him. I shall never forget the enthusiasm and almost boy-like glee with which he enjoyed a fishing trip with me to the Kennet, at Hunger- ford. He would stand for hours on the old bridge watch- ing the trout and marveling at their cuteness. The sys- tem of dry fly-fishing pleased and astonished him greatly, and he told me he meant to try it on some wary old Amer- ican trout he was acquainted with. Then he would show us some of his long casting with a split-cane rod. If we in this country, who only knew him so short a time, feel his loss. so keenly, what must those home friends of his feel—his family and that wide circle of acquaintances who were proud to call him friend?” His death was very sudden—he fell dead while enter- ing his dining room. In addition to his love of the rod he was for many years an active member of the Syracuse Citizens’ Corps, and later of the Sumner Corps, two well- known military organizations. He was also a member of the Baptist Church, and his name was a synonym for all that was honest and manly. The last time I met him he referred to our first fishing experience by saying, “Fred, are you catching many turtles now?’ And the answer was, “No, Reub, it keeps me busy watching wood ducks light upon the trees.” BILLY BISHOP. BOBBING FOR EELS. F these hills should come together where would I be?” | asked Billy when he found himself alone in Quacken- dary Hollow, where he had been sent to cut cord- wood. This was his excuse for returning from a lone- some spot which his superstitious mind peopled with all kinds of creatures, which might even draw the hills to- gether and crush him, as they had done on many occa- sions, he said, in Holland, where his grandparents came from. The scarcity of hills in that country may not have been known to Billy, but that was a matter of no impor- tance to him. The hollow lay half a mile above the village of Green- bush, and was then well timbered and uninhabited. Twenty years later it had quite a settlement, and was often called “Nigger Hollow.” But Billy Bishop was fonder of the society of man than of those weird inhabitants who worked evil in the dark forests by day or in open fields by night. On the hill above the railroad was a field which formed part of the farm of Mr. Frederick Aiken, and a dilapidated barn in it was prominent in the sky-line from the river road above the first creek. This was the “spook- house lot” and the “spook-house barn,” the house which gave the name having burned before my recollection. Billy told me that spooks danced in the barn on certain nights, and that in the shape of stumps of trees a dozen of them had chased him down the hill one night; but before daylight they changed into bats and flew back. This was certified to by John Pulver and Jakey Van Hoesen, chums 20 BILLY BISHOP. 21 of Billy and rivals in doing odd jobs about Isaac Fryer’s tavern when thirsty and time was plenty. The weight of evidence was convincing. These things happened in 1841, the date being fixed by the death of President Har- rison and the fact that Billy said: “Ef I’d ’a’ knowed he was a-goin’ to die so soon I’d never ’a’ woted fur him.” At this time Billy may have been forty years old, may, have been sixty; it was all the same thing to me—he was old. All men over thirty were old, and ten to thirty years more made no difference. “Ef you got a lantern I want to borry it to-night to get some worms outen yer garden,” said Billy; and it was a revelation to me to see him pick up a quart of big “night walkers” in a short time. “What are you going to do with the big worms, Billy?” “Bobbin’ fer eels; don’t yer want to go, to-morrer night?” “Yes, if mother will let me; come around till I ask her.” “Well,” said mother, “he may go with you, Mr. Bishop, if you will take care that he doesn’t fall overboard and you don’t keep him out too late at night.” “All right, ma’am; we can’t stay late, because I’m only goin’ here in the crik beginnin’ about sundown, and eels don’t bite at a bob much a’ter ten o’clock, nur, fur that matter, much a’ter nine. I’ll take keer of him all right, an’ mebbe I’ll have some eels to skin fur yer bre’kfas’, ma’am.” The worms had been put in a keg with plenty of earth and set ina cool place. I was home from school early in the afternoon, for the mystery of bobbing for eels was to be unfolded to me by a master of the art. Billy was on hand an hour before sundown, and getting a few yards 22 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. of stout linen thread and a knitting needle from my mother, we started for the woodshed to arrange some- thing, but just what it was to be was a mystery. First Billy cut off about six feet of thread and fastened it to the middle of the knitting needle by a knot and two half- hitches, two young eyes watching every move. Next he threaded a big worm straight through from one end to the other, ran it the whole length of the thread and fas- tened it so that it would not slip off. This was repeated until the thread was full and was six feet of living worms; then he wound the string around the fingers of his left hand until the upper end was reached, when he cut off the knitting needle, took the coil from his hand and laid it on a piece of fish line, which he doubled over and tied hard and fast, cutting through to the threads and leaving a number of worm-covered loops at each side, and the “bob” was made. The fact that it was a dirty job did not disturb Billy nor me; in fact, we boys made many of them afterward, and neither dirt nor the possible suffering of the worms were ever given a thought; and at this ripe age it seems to be no worse than the ordinary baiting of a hook with “our mutual friend,” as a late writer called that humble beast which we have termed a “barnyard hackle” and scientists have dignified with the title of Lumbricus terrestris, to signify his ownership or occupancy of the soil. It simply seemed a trifle worse because the labor of impalement and the consequent dirt came all at once. These things are a matter of taste and temperament, nothing more. With the boat at anchor in the little creek, just below Hiram Drum’s slaughter house, which was about as far up as a boat could go at ordinary times, Billy told me how to proceed. | “In swifter water we'd had to use sinkers to get the BILLY BISHOP. 23 bobs straight down,” said he; “but we won’t need ’em here. You see, you want to let your bob down till it touches the bottom and then raise it a couple of inches, for eels they swim near the bottom and hit the bob just right.” “But you didn’t put any hooks in my bob, Billy; how can I catch ’em when they bite?” His back was to me and he was looking upward. He smacked his lips, put something in his pocket, and said: “T have to take a little sassferiller fer my lungs, the doctor told me. Oh, no! we don’t want no hooks; the eels just gets their teeth tangled in the threads and comes up, if you bring ’em easy, then when they are just up to the surface of the water lift em quick and gentle inter the boat and they drop off theirselves; but if you jerk ’em they’re gone, er ef you hit the side of the boat with ’em they’re gone. Drop yer bob over easy, so,’ and he low- ered his bob in the water without a splash. Soon I felt a jig, jig, very sharp, and said to Billy, “I’ve got a bite.” “Pull up!” said he; “never let em more’n touch it,” and he landed an eel in the boat. I tried it, but Billy said I was too quick, for the eel left. He took several before I boated one, for what with jerking the line and slapping them against the side of the boat they dropped back into the water,.if they even got fairly started on the way up. It was easy after once getting the hang of the thing, and it soon came natural to haul up slowly to the surface and then swing them into the boat. Good fun this is in shallow water, when no better fishing offers, and many a night have I rowed from Albany down the Hudson to Van Wie’s Point—some six miles below Albany, more or -less—with a friend or two and spent a pleasant evening, in later years, fishing behind the dyke and just above Van Wie’s light, and then rowed back to the city about mid- 24 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. night with a bushel of eels, weighing from nothing up to two pounds or more, for the larger eels are not so easily captured in this way, their weight tearing them loose in the air. The night was clear and starlit; bats circled about picking up insects here and there. Billy told me that they could be caught if I threw up my cap and said, “Bat, bat, come into my hat and I'll give you a pound of cheese.” There was no room in the boat to do this, but I tried it afterward and didn’t get any bats. A large bird flew just over our heads with slow and noiseless flaps, and Billy said something in Dutch. “What was that?’ I asked. “They’re bad, them things that fly at night a- making no noise, an’ I doan’ like ’em,” and he took a little medicine for his lungs. The moon, a few days past the full, came up slowly just south of the spook-house barn, and Billy said if a bat flew across its face I must say: “Hookum skookum, Rollicum kookum, Holliche Bolliche, Baniche spookum.” “Ef you don’t,” said he, “you’ll go blind on the side next the moon.” No bat crossed the moon that night to my knowledge, nor do I ever remember seeing one cross it; but the charm has been remembered and held in re- serve should such a thing happen, for no’ man cares to lose an eye when it can be so easily avoided by simply following the directions of a man so skilled in spook lore as Billy Bishop. This night we had fair success, and when Billy put me ashore he saw me safely home, only a few doors below, and said that he would send us up a lot of dressed eels for breakfast; and he did. During the fishing Billy faithfully BILLY BISHOP. 25 followed the directions of Dr. Getty and took his medicine frequently, as I could testify; but he did not seem to be as disgusted with it as | was when the same doctor pre- scribed his great tablespoonful doses for me. I men- tioned this fact to mother, and she said that Mr. Bishop was older and more accustomed to medicine, and knew the importance of following the doctor’s orders better than I. No doubt mother was right, but I can’t help thinking that what Dr. Getty gave Billy must have tasted better to him than what he gave me; but I was young. Several times afterwari Billy Bisnop took me with him when he went eeling. Mr. John Ruyter, the tanner, said it was because Billy was afraid to go alone, but it is possible that a luncheon which mother left on the table for us on our return may have had its influence. Father said that Billy was not good company for a boy, and be- sides that, “It would be better for Fred to stay at home and read or study instead of being out bobbing for eels; his mind runs too much on such foolishness.” But mother argued that a boy must have some fun and could not study all the time, and Billy Bishop was a kind- hearted man who had never done anything wrong, and the result was that we had eels for breakfast many times. Billy occasionally played the fiddle for dances, not for the balls and parties of the more fashionable sort, but just dances, where the musician did not become wealthy all at once. I was too young to know much of this, but once he told me in a low voice, while putting on a fresh bob when the water was warm and the old one was spoiled, that he had played for a dance a few nights before, and the big boys had been “pizen mean. They asked me out -for *freshments an’ I laid down my fiddle an’ bow, an’ when I come back they’d sawed that bow ’cross a candle an’ it was that greasy that it sp’iled the strings, an’ I was 26 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. done fur the night. Who done it I do’no, but there was Bill Fairchild, John Stranahan, Pole Sherwood an’ a lot on em there, an’ they made out like they was awful sorry.” Poor Bill Fairchild in after years died of burns re- ceived while rescuing the books from the burning freight house of the B. & A. R. R., for which he was a book- keeper; the others have gone to rest with old Billy, and no more will they grease his bow nor pour water in his fiddle when he goes ort for “ ’freshments;” but I was told that Billy learned 75 take his fiddle and bow with him when called from labor. The humor of these things did not strike Billy in the least. This was evident when he asked me: “Now, what fun was ther’ in that? They hed to pay me fur the evenin’, and it stopped the dancin’. [I tell ye there was folks there that was mad, but, bless ye, they couldn’t find out who done it. No one done it. It done itself! They tried to make me believe it was spooks, but spooks don’t come to dances where folks is; they catches you all alone, in the dark.” Some years later, probably about 1845, when a large country store was kept in the brick building on the corner of Columbia street and Broadway, and in great letters announced “I. Fly, Headquarters,” there was a large shad seine being knit in the hotel of Isaac Fryer, just above. About a dozen men had an interest in it, and they knit away every evening, Billy Bishop and Jakey Van Hoesen being busy filling the needles with twine. I somehow used to drop in there and knit a little early in the evening, but the men stayed late. No one went down Broadway except Billy, and Mr. Fly would have a man or two in waiting to scare him. Sometimes a few stones rolled after him would be enough to start him on a run; at others “spooks” would spring at him from the churchyard, and although the victim may have been well fortified with BILLY BISHOP. 27 Fryer’s “Hollands,” his starting for home required the courage of a Tam o’ Shanter, which he did not possess. He would go up street with friends and around the back way until his tormentors found it out, and in despair Billy told the story of his persecutions, when he was furnished with an escort and saw no more spooks. Once he confided to me a great secret: “If the eels don’t bite good,” said he, “Just go to a stable and look over the horses’ legs. You'll find a scab on the inside of every leg, and when this is big and comes off easy just take it and put it in your bob and the eels ’ll come a long way to get at it; it is powerful strong, an’ they can smell it for miles.” “Why don’t we use it in our bobs?” “We don’t need it; they bite well enough as it is; we don’t want all the eels in the river; what could we do with so many?” ‘ That was sufficient, and if the thing was ever tried I do not know. Perhaps the idea originated in Billy’s brain or was told to him by some joker, yet it is possible that the very powerful odor of that gland would either attract or repel the fish in a decided manner. Let some eel bob- bertry it and report to Forest and Stream. My time for bobbing passed years ago, but if opportunity offers I will try it tentatively in the interest of knowledge. Once the shad seiners of the village had arranged to make some hauls at the lower end of the island which lies opposite Albany, and Billy had brought up his little boat the night before and left it at the ferry where “Old Josey,” the ferryman, kept his skiff for late night service after the steamboat had finished the day and the horse-boat had carried the early night passengers. The fact became known to “Pop” Huyler, the blacksmith; Charley Brad- bury, the livery man, and Steve Miles, the carpenter. 28 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. After some deliberation and discussion of the case they decided that a short piece of board, fastened edgewise to the under side of the keel and at an angle of about forty- five degrees to its length, would be about the best thing that could be done at the time. Bradbury finished the board and Miles affixed it, and the boat was placed in the water with the improved combination centreboard and rudder. The big scow came up the river bearing the great seine on a platform over its stern, and four stalwart oarsmen made her stem the current past the ferry. A crowd had assembled when Billy appeared with a pair of oars on his shoulder, and casting loose the painter shoved off his boat, put the oars in position and began to row. The boat seemed bewitched, for it kept going round ina circle, no matter how the oarsman tried to keep it straight, and Billy, pale as a ghost, dropped his oars and was evi- dently praying in Dutch. The boat drifted near the dock below, when Pop Huyler kindly called to the old man to throw him the rope; he did so, and Billy was safe, but weak and faint. “Must ha’ been spooks in the boat last night, Billy,” said Pop. “Yes,” he replied, “I ’spect so; might a know’d there’d be bad luck, fur a hen crowed yestidy an’ the fust man I see this mornin’ was cross-eyed.” “Sure,” said Charley Bradbury, “that’s enough to bring bad luck; but, Billy, come up to Brockway’s tavern and take something, and say that Dutch prayer once more, and that'll fix ’em all right.” While Billy was repeating the exorcising words Miles got help and pulled the boat on the dock and ripped off the board, launched the boat, and then, after much per- suasion, Billy tried it again; and behold! the spell of the witches, spooks and other evil-doers was broken, and BILLY BISHOP. 29 Billy, with great good humor, joined the party just in time to help haul on the line as the seine boat reached the shore, fully convinced that, while spooks might tempor- arily annoy him, he could triumph over them in the end. Old Vose, who played the clarionette in the band on top of Fly’s “headquarters,” heard of it, and got Billy to re- peat the verse which could so undo the work of witches; and as neither Billy nor he could write, Bill Fairchild vol- unteered to act as amanuensis, and what he wrote no man knows, for when Vose asked his landlady to read it for him she became angry and burned the paper. No doubt but her method was a good one, for no one ever heard that Billy’s boat was ever bewitched again. Poor old Billy! He died after I left the place, and is remembered by very few. Spooks can no longer chase him at night, grease his fiddle-bow, nor obstruct his boat. The hills have at last come together above him, but he is safe. JOHN ATWOOD. FIRST NIGHT IN CAMP. boy, neither was he a good boy, but just one of those ne’er-do-wells that could not be kept in school nor out of the woods. He was long of leg and could tell where most of the birds’ nests were within a circle of two miles, with the schoolhouse asa centre. His acquirements at school dwarfed beside his knowledge of the best “‘fishin’ holes,” and some parents I knew did not look upon John as a desirable companion for a younger boy. Hewas some three years my senior, and his knowl- edge of the country roads, and of the birds, beasts and fishes made him easily a leader of boys who had a taste for such things. It was long after Reuben Wood had shown me how to fish that I sat on the railroad dock fishing with a pole and float, for the Albany & Boston Railroad had invaded the village, coming down between the present site of the ' Episcopal Church and the district school to where the lower bridge to Albany now spans the Hudson, and it made a good fishing place for boys. John Atwood came there that Saturday morning and sneered at my tackle. “Yes,” said he, “that’s the way Reub Wood fishes, but there ain’t no fun in it, for you h’ist ’em out too quick with a pole; throw that away and take off yer float, rig yer sinker below the hooks, and when you get a fish haul him in hand under hand and feel him wiggle all the way in—that’s sport!” John’s advice was followed and ap- proved, the heavy sinker, with two or three hooks pendant 30 OOKED at from later years John was not a bad JOHN ATWOOD. 31 above it, was swung around two or three times, and away it went with a plunk, and a new style of fishing was ac- quired, much to Reuben’s disgust; but the majority of the boys about Greenbush seemed to prefer this mode. The fish that we took in the Hudson then were white and yel- low perch, bullheads, shiners, eels, spawn-eaters (which were small minnows), and an occasional sucker; but John knew of the mud creek and the dead creek, a couple of miles down the river, where the fish were larger and more plentiful. The “dead creek” was a short inlet from the river running only a few hundred yards into the island, but the “mud creek,” as we boys called it, was some five miles long and formed the island; this was the bayou which we knew later as the ‘““Popskinny.” One Friday morning, while on the way to school, John was met. Two boys were with him, and they were on the way to the mud creek with all equipments. It was in the spring of the year, and John said: “Come along and have some good fishin’; I wouldn’t go to school when the fish are biting as they are now. We are going to stay till Sunday night, and have three days’ fishin’ and birds’-nestin’. Come along; you’re a fool if you don’t.” “Where will you sleep?” “In Rivenburg’s barn, in the hay; it’s good and warm, and we got lots o’ grub an’ lines.” Here was temptation in very strong shape, but the consequences loomed up. His mother was a widow, mine was not. I could square it with mother, but : After some debate the books were left at the schoolhouse, a hasty note written to mother, saying that I would be home Sunday night, and we went. Such fun! John cooked fish over coals of fire, we covered ourselves in the hay at night, and the crickets 32 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. sang weird songs, the bats flapped about, the frogs sung and the owls hooted. Surely this beat Robinson Crusoe all hollow, for he was all alone for a while. This was life of an ideal kind. Sunday night, when a reckoning might be made, seemed too far off for consideration. The pres- ent life was perfect! We made explorations across the bottom lands and up the wooded hills, saw wild pigeons, and John wished for a gun; chipmunks, squirrels, birds of kinds new to most of us, but which John could name, and a rabbit! Here was big game indeed, and when John oracularly said, “School is a fool to this place,” there was no dissenting voice, and all regretted when the time came to depart. We had more fish than we could carry, and only took the freshest and best, and toiled wearily homeward, one in the party at least dreading the arrival. What mother said over the torn clothes and spoiled shoes we will not repeat, but when father invited me to a conference in the wood- shed she said: “Joseph, I have punished him severely, and he has promised never to go off again without permission; and he should not be punished twice for the same of- fence.”