PORTRAITS IN INK 207 



He is alert for the first sharp-set trout and 

 tempts the hungry perch and bullhead with the 

 earliest worm. No flies are looped about his 

 shapeless, battered hat, no fly-book in his pocket, 

 for he scorns all such gimcracks as he does reel and 

 jointed rod. 



A pole that only nature has had a hand in mak- 

 ing, save in trimming, is good enough for him, and 

 so is an honest bait that in no wise deceives but in 

 concealing a hook. 



Only when it comes to trolling has he departed 

 from the ancient usage of pork rind and red flannel 

 and become a late convert to modern metallic 

 lures. 



All day long, with the stout line held in his 

 teeth, he trails the fluttering spoon along marshy 

 margins and rocky shores, impelling his craft with 

 slow oars or dextrous paddle, lazily laborious, 

 always expectant, never excited by good luck, nor 

 ever cast down by bad. 



He fishes solely for fish, never for sport. In 

 spearing and netting suckers when they come up 

 stream to spawn and in hauling his seine when 

 the law allows it, he has as much sport as in an- 

 gling. If the pickerel, perch, and smelt bite well, 

 he apparently enjoys ice-fishing, with its cold and 

 desolate environment, quite as much as casting 

 his bait in open waters under softer skies. 



He wastes no time on the fine arts of the craft, 



