Pine eis | CaN ANGLER. 
WoL 25. 
THREE WEEKS IN 
BY W. 
On a day last winter when the wind 
was holding high carnival, flinging 
snow and sleet with stinging rattle up- 
on my studio window, and drifting 
huge banks of it against the buildings 
across the way, causing premonitory 
shivers against the time when I must 
turn out and face it on my tramp 
home, the Drummer dropped in. 
I say the Drummer! Of course there 
are other drummers—big drummers, 
little drummers, fat drummers, and I 
had almost added lean drummers, but 
who ever saw a lean drummer ? 
My drummer is large and not lean. 
To say he is fat would be not exactly 
the truth, and might also involve mein 
other difficulties that I much prefer to 
avoid. I would also add that he is 
very good looking, only that I have a 
dim far-away notion that there is a 
streak of vanity about my friend that 
it will notdo toencourage. My reasons 
for thus thinking are based upon a com- 
mission he gave me to purchase a look- 
ing glass upon the first trip I made to 
buy supplies for our camp. The num- 
ber of times he charged me to be sure 
and not forget it, the look of blank 
despair that crossed his countenance 
when he unfolded the parcel and saw 
that he could use but one eye at a time 
in looking in it, leads me to believe 
there is a very small, lean streak of 
OCTOBER, 1895. No. 10 
WADERS. 
C. KEPLER. 
vanity somewhere deep underneath all 
his good qualities. 
It was mean in me to bring back such 
a glass, for it certainly would have 
Saustied “it to) cover a silver dollar. 
The contortions I underwent in trying 
to shave with it as an assistant were, 
however, ample punishment. 
I find that I must go back and make 
a fresh start and state that which oc- 
curred upon the entrance of Drummer. 
After our usual exchange of stately 
courtesies which generally begin and 
end like this: 
(Hello, old Sport! > 
“‘Hello, Isaac!” Wedropped into a 
chat about last season’s angling ad- 
ventures, and planned in the end a trip 
that a few days ago was completed. 
Anyone taking a map of the State of 
Michigan, and looking at its southwest 
corner, will find a long black winding 
mark that makes a loop down into the 
State of Indiana. This twisty line is 
known as the St. Joseph river, abbrevi- 
ated by all who know and love its 
beautiful curves and reaches, its wooded 
banks and singing rapids, as St. Jo. 
Although the many dams that cross at 
different points have done much to mar 
its beauty in spots, it still remains one 
of the most beautiful streams in Michi- 
gan. 
It is also one of the historic rivers of 
