14 Lhe American Angler 
from the dining-room to remind us of 
the steaming supper that would soon 
await our ravenous appetites. On every 
side, up stairs and down, we were con- 
stantly reminded that we were, indeed, 
in a veritable fisherman’s home-in-the- 
woods. At every turn we were con- 
fronted with some delightful reminder 
of a good day’s catch or a successful 
hunt, while the skins of catamount, 
deer and fox, and numerous beautifully- 
mounted specimens of the feathered 
tribe,interspersed with appropriate etch- 
ings and handsomely-mounted horns, 
only added to the artistic beauty of as 
tasty and well-arranged a club house as 
it was ever my good fortune to visit. 
Refreshed by a bountiful supper, to 
which we did full justice, and seated 
once more before the blazing, crackling 
logs, our party increased to twice its 
original size by visiting members, we 
discussed and laid plans for the morrow. 
Rods were unpacked and carefully 
jointed together, reels adjusted and 
the lines drawn through the guides, 
and having added a small swivel to the 
end of each of our lines with a bowline 
knot, and then a double-snelled hook to 
each swivel, we were told by our guide 
and mentor in matters piscatorial, that 
our ‘‘rigs’” were in perfect order for a 
first essay in minnow-casting. Stowing 
our ‘‘rigs’’ away carefully on the rod- 
rack, where they would be ready for us 
in the morning, we spent a delightful 
evening listening to marvelous yarns 
anent past achievements of mighty 
Nimrods who had gained both fame and 
fish to their heart’s content by their 
skillful manipulation of their rods and 
guns in this locality. And so, in the 
fitful glow of our log fire, we continued 
to chat away right merrily until a few 
half-suppressed yawns admonished us 
that the hour for retiring had arrived, 
and that we must be up with the sun 
on the morrow. Awakened at the first 
streak of dawn by a sharp rap at our 
doors, we were not long in making our 
toilet, and soon enjoying a substantial 
breakfast in the cozy dininy-room, 
through the open door of which we en- 
joyed the cheerful log fire that was al- 
ready illuminating everything around us 
with its ruddy glow. Breakfast over, 
our ‘‘traps’ were collected by our guide 
and a walk of two or three minutes 
brought us to the boathouse, where we 
found everything we should need for 
the day waiting and in readiness for us. 
Our roomy boat was provided with a 
bait kettle of golden shiners in addition 
to a quantity of small frogs and hel- 
gramites (Corydalis cornutus) carefully 
stowed away in wet grass and small 
stones. There was a gentle ripple upon 
the surface of the lake as we left the 
dock, and a light grey mist which en- 
shrouded the water and surrounding 
woods was being slowly dispelled by 
the mounting sun as, with slow and 
measured stroke, we pulled for the 
ground where I was to make my first 
cast. I am strongly imbued with the 
belief that cheap fishing tackle is a de- 
lusion and a snare, and au contratre, 
that with a trusty Henshall rod of good 
standard build, surmounted by a first- 
class reel, even an inexperienced ama- 
teur such as I was, feels, with a little 
instruction, a degree of confidence in 
her ability to do or die beyond any- 
thing that less valuable ‘‘tools” can 
inspire. As we slowly approached the 
opposite shore of the lake, and within 
twenty-five yards of a large bed of 
water lilies, our guide motioned us to 
keep perfectly quiet, and shipping his 
oars, baited my hook with a golden 
shiner, and bidding me reel up my line, 
told me to cast to the edge of the lily 
