40 The American Angler 
very indifferent, not so much, I imagine, 
on account of the absence of these fish 
in its waters, as to the fact that the 
steam launches and numerous other 
small craft frighten the fish into their 
secret hiding places, and to the addi- 
tional fact that the average frequenter 
of summer resorts is more thoroughly 
educated down to pot-fishing than he 
is up to legitimate, artisticangling. If 
this comes to the ears of any of my 
numerous pole-fishing friends who have 
summer homes on the shores of Maxin- 
kuckee, I am liable to be shot down on 
the street like a common “‘ yaller cur,”’ 
and my bereaved family forced to turn 
to you and all true anglers for sym- 
pathy. My friend Lowry had several 
things this fall to back up and strengthen 
his theory. To begin with, the fishing 
was, by large odds, the worst I have had 
in the fifteen years I have fished these 
waters; secondly, there was no rise in 
the river during September, and lastly, 
the Vandalia Railroad Company, which 
is interested in building up Maxinkuckee 
as a summer resort, has put a dam, or 
sliding gate, at the outlet of the lake, 
and this gate is ‘‘ wide open”’ while the 
fish are moving up stream, but at all 
other times it is ‘‘fast down.” If Mr. 
Lowry’s theory is correct, the Tippeca- 
noe is annually depleting its own waters 
to enrich those of Maxinkuckee, with- 
out the remotest show of reciprocity, 
and with the dams at Monticello, Nor- 
way and Pulaski, spanning its rapid 
current four times between its mouth 
and our fishing grounds, necessitating 
from ten to twelve feet of high water 
to bring the fish up, the future prospect 
for good sport on the upper waters of 
this famous old stream are not of the 
brightest. 
Dear old picturesque Tippecanoe, 
‘* With all thy faults I love theersniit” 
Thy rocky riffles, thy deep, eddying 
pools, thy bouldered channels, are the 
battle fields of many a grand and glori- 
ous fight; whether of victory or sore 
defeat, the sport was the same, and I 
bear thee no grudge. What thou hast 
been I know full well. What thou 
may’st be in the years to come, I pray 
for life and strength to help make and 
know as well. 
FLOOD TIDE. 
BY ARTHUR W. EATON. 
The tide came up and the sun went down, 
And the river was full to its very brim, 
And a little boat crept up to the town, 
On the muddy wave in the morning dim. 
But the little boat, with its reed-like oar, 
Brought news to town that made it weep, 
And the people were never so gay as before, 
And they never slept so sound a sleep. 
News of a wreck that the boatman had seen 
Off in the bay, in a fierce, wild gale; 
Crimson enough such things, I ween, 
Yet the women cried and the men were pale. 
