THE PIKE. 377 



water. Throwing on the drag, and getting the pressure of my 

 thumb on the plate of the reel, I snubbed him, and he bucked 

 like a Broncho. He twisted and shook himself, and finally 

 went to the bottom and sulked. My line was taut, but "nary 

 a move" could I get out of him; the quivering, ringing sen- 

 sation that comes from a taut line telegraphed that the fish 

 was either trying to smash my hook, or worrying at the 

 gimp snood. 



"Something's got to be did!" came from my Indiana friend. 

 "How big is he.'" 



"I think a small Pike, from the way he's fighting." 



I pulled — he tugged! I reel' d up — he backed out. Expect- 

 ing every moment my line would part, I resorted to an 

 artifice to scare him; slipping on a clearing ring on the taut 

 line, I elevated my tip and down went the ring. 



"Look out! T ; he's going like a racer!" 



The ring was too much for him; to the right, then to left, 

 and then up to the surface, a handsome Pike thirty inches if 

 an inch; my friend began shouting: 



"He's a fine one! handle him carefully!" 



One more spurt, but my rod controlled him, and in a few 

 moments he lay beside the boat, "played out." My friend 

 lifted him, a finely marked Pike, a male fish, just a trifie 

 over thirty inches long. 



In the vicinity of Edmore, Michigan, there is a chain of 

 lakes that have an abundance of northern Pike in them, but 

 you cannot get any sport fishing with fine tackle. The fish 

 are "foolish." A pole, a clothes-line, a big triple hook, any 

 kind of bait, a big jerk, a yank, and you could drop your pole, 

 haul in your clothes-line, and pull on the raft a Pike weigh- 

 ing from ten to thirty pounds. Put on a minnow, frog, 

 mouse, piece of fat pork, or any kind of spoon, and you 

 could get another big fish in a few moments. 



What fun is there in fishing, when three men can catch 

 two hundred pounds of fish in three hours.' and then cannot 



