THE LITTLE PICKERELS 



sota, called by courtesy only a lake, upon which I have 

 had unlimited sport with pickerel. The shores, sedge- 

 grown, were wadeable, which added to the fun. There 

 is never quite the sport in casting from a boat or river 

 bank, that there is in working along waist-deep in 

 water and playing your fish with rod held high in the 

 air. Even a small pickerel can puzzle an experienced 

 fisherman under such conditions. 



Upon the lake of which I write, one "mosquito day" 

 (every Minnesotian knows what I mean) the last of 

 June some twenty years ago, I was working along the 

 edge of sedge and pickerel weed just as the sun poked 

 his red rim above the rolling prairie to the east. 

 Countless numbers of "suggema" buzzed and roared 

 about my head, biting now and then in spite of liberal 

 dressings of "dope." Still the pickerel were rising to 

 feathers, and as I had been denied any sort of angling 

 for nearly two years, the reader will not be surprised 

 at my remaining in the game e'en though, like the 

 immortal Bozzaris, I bled at every pore. Again and 

 again I failed to hook my fish, for it was exceedingly 

 difficult to secure the requisite "purchase," so deep in 

 the water was I. Nevertheless, now and then a little 

 olive-green squirmer found its way into my creel and 

 I was content. The fish averaged small, all under a 

 foot, probably, and as a pickerel is almost one-third 

 head, my store of vulgar meat did not increase rapidly, 

 and I was fishing for breakfast. 



At last, with seven or eight fish in my creel, I waded 

 to the shore and climbed the highest bluff where the 

 breeze could catch the mosquitoes, and built a little 

 fire of sagebrush. In due time the bacon was fretting 

 in the pan, and then the pickerel sputtered in turn. 



55 



