Current Comments. 



319 



fellow. If you are so darned inquisi- 

 tive you won't get a taste of that soup, 

 and don't you forget it." 



Mentioning the fact of the bluefish 

 chasing the little mackerel up the 

 sands of Coney Island's beaches, brings 

 to the mind the fact that the run of 

 mackerel in waters off the south side 

 of Long Island has already this season 

 on one or two occasions been positively 

 phenomenal. Captain Willard W. 

 Clock, of Islip, is a pound-net fisher- 

 man. In the early part of this month, 

 while attending to his work, he sighted 

 in the offing the peculiar flurry on the 

 water made by a big school of mack- 

 erel. He was after them with his men 

 and nets as quickly as possible. He 

 secured thirty barrels of the fish in one 

 haul. So great was the supply, that he 

 had difficulty in obtaining the number 

 of boxes necessary to ship them to this 

 city, for the supply at the stores gave 

 out long before that of the fish did. 



Porgie fishing in Peconic Bay is now 

 at its height. When one mentions 

 porgies, it is usual to express dissatis- 

 faction, if not disgust. I am aware the 

 porgie is looked upon as a low-down 

 fellow, is despised as a game fish, and 

 thought a second or third rate one for 

 edible purposes. Our colored brethren 

 know better. So keen is their appreci- 

 ation of the porgie, that it has led to 

 the porgie being called "nigger fish." 

 The general public is all wrong and the 

 darkie correct in his tastes. It must 

 be borne in mind that the porgies of 

 Peconic Bay are no "pumpkin seeds," 

 but fellows of generous proportions. 

 Few will weigh less than a pound each, 

 while a pound-and-a-half one is com- 

 mon. Once in a while a two-pounder 

 eomes to you. Now, take these big 



ones, dress properly, fry them in 

 melted pork drippings in a hot pan 

 over a hot fire, first slashing its sides 

 at regular intervals from gills to tail, 

 turn and twirl imtil the skin takes on a 

 rich golden brown hue, serve hot with 

 a pinch of Cayenne pepper and a few 

 drops of lemon juice and salt to taste, 

 and if your palate will not tell you that 

 it is gustatory delight then I was never 

 a fisherman. 



Mention of Blenderman's snapping 

 turtles reminds me of an experience 

 of my own some years ago. It was in 

 Connecticut, and not fifty miles from 

 the City Hall of this city. I was pass- 

 ing some weeks at a farm house, rusti- 

 cating in the laziest of fashions. The 

 house was situated on an eminence, 

 the hill sinking sharply down to end in 

 a mass of rock and boulders. Here a 

 river of no mea*n dimensions coursed 

 along in rapid foaming fashion. Like 

 unto all streams in hilly countries, 

 stretches of still, silent, running water 

 would be formed, and then a rush and 

 a fall over a rough and stony bottom, 

 the water foaming and roaring along 

 until another quiet pool was formed 

 below. It had been once a famous 

 stream for trout, but it had been fished 

 out so many years before my visit that 

 the "speckled beauties" were but a 

 memory in the minds of even the old 

 sportsmen. Having nothing else to do, 

 I secured some small wire and made 

 the familiar noose known to every 

 Yankee lad, and went day after day to 

 that stream to noose suckers. I know 

 the sucker as a food fish is not of the 

 best, but what would you, an idle man, 

 and lots of suckers in the stream, do. 

 The fishing came as natural as the fish 

 to the water. I had for a mentor and 

 guide a bright, little, black boy, not 



