Notes and Queries 
The Delights of Spruce Cabin. 
Dear Epiror Harris:—Some time ago I 
dropped into your office and asked about Can- 
adensis, Penn., as a likely place to enjoy a few 
days’ outing with our old friend the “trout 
fish.’”” You advised me to go to ‘Spruce 
Cabin,” and now I wish to tell the readers of 
THE ANGLER that we have never found a more 
delightful place to stay than at that managed 
by the Price Brothers. Unfortunately the 
weather was cold and poor for trout fishing, 
but we saw enough fish of good size to warrant 
splendid fishing when the conditions are at all 
favorable. Several fish of over a pound in 
weight have been taken this season. 
The anglers who toast their feet before the 
big fire of logs at Spruce Cabin are entertain- 
ing ‘‘yarn spinners.” We heard of the last 
‘‘painter” killed in that part of the country. 
He took refuge on the top of a deserted house, 
and a Brooklyn sportsman secured him by 
boring an inch hole in the roof. When the ani- 
mal’s tail fell through, a knot in that member 
prevented escape and allowed plenty of time 
for many shots. That your readers may not 
think that this story hints at poor skill with the 
rifle, I will state that this same gentleman has 
invented a highly moral way of securing the 
large trout of the Broadhead. He selects a 
fine pool and attaches his tail fly to a branch 
on the other side. Drawing his line taut his 
dropper flies, of which he uses a round dozen, 
are held eighteen inches above the water. 
With a Stevens rifle he kills the rising trout, 
and seldom fails to fill his basket with the best 
fish of the stream. 
In the broad pool near the house is a cunning 
old trout which has eluded the skill of Kit 
Clarke himself. This trout has risen so con- 
stantly to flies, natural and otherwise, that 
now he no longer fears to leave the water en- 
tirely, and, on sunny days, has been frequently 
seen resting on a large rock in mid-stream, en- 
joying the cool breezes. It is said that this 
fish has even chased the dogs from the pool 
through a meadow. ‘That this is a fact seems 
likely, for I could not induce the dogs to go 
near the spot. 
At Spruce Cabin the visiting angler who 
sleeps later than nine o’clock is justly disturbed 
in his slumbers by a salute of twenty-seven 
shots from pistols and guns. This is right, and 
gives one a healthy desire to rise in time for 
breakfast. 
One little custom is so pleasaut that I must 
201 
refer toit. When a guest returns to his even- 
ing meal after his pleasant toil in the stream, 
a large corner clock in the dining-room plays 
the most delightful and refreshing music and 
continues the tuneful concert for some time. 
Let me urge your readers to visit Spruce Cabin. 
It is a thoroughly pleasant place to stay and 
the streams at Canadensis are beautiful and 
well stocked with trout. 
Yours, with regard, 
G. L. PLUMLEY 
Perfumed Trout. 
“ A chemical works on the banks of the 
Rhone, in the canton of Geneva, is devoted to 
the manufacture of artificial musk, and it is 
found that the fishes, more especially the trout, 
in the river, which are caught in the neighbor- 
hood, have a musky savor.’ 
So says an exchange, but zz re and contra, 
we have caught trout on the Willowemoc where 
the water was so tainted with the refuse acid 
waste from the mills as to pollute the atmo- 
sphere, and these trout, when cooked, were as 
sweet to the palate as any salmonoid we ever 
tasted. 
Fishing. 
BY J. W. TAYLOR. 
Talk about your sperin’ 
Or fishin’ with a net ; 
There’s only one way to ketch fish 
’Tis with a hook, you bet. 
Not trollin’ with a hook 
Behind a leaky boat, 
But with a rod and line; 
You don’t need any ‘“‘ float.” 
Get grasshoppers and flies, 
Somewhat less than a peck— 
And a pair of rubber boots 
That come up to the neck. 
Then get into the water 
Where it seems to gently run, 
And cast among the riffles, 
Dancin’ in the sun. 
There’s no fun in ketchin’ suckers 
In a greasy old felt hat ; 
If you want to know what fishin’ is, 
’Tis something more than that— 
’Tis fallin’ inand gettin’ wet, 
But always keepin’ sober, 
And thinkin what a fool you was 
When fishin’ days are over. 
