THE BOOK OF THE PIKE 



I trembled for the integrity of my tackle, wishing, it 

 must be confessed, for a heavier rod. But Fate was 

 kind that morning, for the fish became possessed of 

 another idea, and shot straight down the slough, lake- 

 ward. I was content to let him go, knowing that my 

 reel held full 200 feet of new line. (It never is the part 

 of wisdom to fish for great pike with an old, worn-out 

 line.) 



I wondered, as I watched the line disappear from the 

 spool, if the fish had started for the Soo at the foot of 

 the Great Lakes. Reaching the sandbar at the mouth 

 of the slough and evidently fearing the shallow water, 

 he turned and made directly for me with all the speed 

 of a reckless autoist. I reeled like mad, blessing my 

 quadruple fly-reel, as I realized that I was able to keep 

 a taut line upon my capture. (Beg pardon — hooked 

 fish.) Passing near the canoe, I caught a glimpse of 

 his magnificent proportions and imagined that he was 

 k)nger and heavier than a certain mounted specimen 

 that graces the place of honor above a well-remembered 

 fireplace. I grudgingly gave him line, made him fight 

 for every inch, tiring him as best I could. For the way 

 to fight a great pike on a fly-rod is to fight him. Never 

 let the fish conduct the battle: that is the prerogative 

 of the fisherman. 



A fault-finding correspondent, who can see no sport 

 in fly-fishing for members of the pike family, writes: 

 "But a great pike or pickerel will not leap from the 

 water, as does a bass or salmon." No, not as does a 

 bass or salmon, but as a great pike. The leap of the 

 great pike, while not as finished and spectacular as 

 that of the small-mouth, say, is no less confusing, 

 dangerous, and tackle-testing. He throws himself 



