THE BOOK OF THE PIKE 



more attractive than any artificial lure, with the ex- 

 ception perhaps of a trolling spoon, a matter which 

 will be discussed in the following chapter. Certainly 

 I did not find even a spoon, though trolled 200 feet 

 behind my boat, successful when 'lunge were "sleep- 

 ing" upon the surface. I fished early in the morning 

 and again late at night, before storms and when a 

 breeze roughened the surface of the water. But to 

 return to my yarn. 



One evening I pushed out upon the lake just as the 

 sun was going down into a mass of upheaped thunder- 

 heads, indicating that a change of weather was near. 

 (Strange how a man's mind retains such impressions. 

 I have only to shut my eyes now to see the crimson 

 sky above the cathedral spruce which marged the lake 

 to the west.) Up near the head of the little body of 

 water a great bed of spatter-dock reached out from the 

 shore, the home of yellow perch and various sunfish. 

 Attaching a six-inch perch to my hook — an unusual 

 bait with me, by the way, but because of the preva- 

 lence of that fish in the water I thought it wise to 

 use one — and allowing my boat to float, I slipped the 

 minnow into the water. A slight breeze ruffled the 

 surface, slowly driving my boat from west to east. 

 My perch bait started for the weeds, and I let it go. 

 When within some two or three rods of its haven, all 

 motion ceased. I waited a moment, then thinking 

 that perhaps it had fouled on some snag, I straightened 

 the rod. The hook was fast. "Hooked to a root, by 

 Jonah!" I snorted in disgust. Every live-bait fisher- 

 man knows how a minnow delights to wind the line 

 about a sunken branch or the strong root of some 

 water plant. 



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