In Northern \Yoods. 



My reveries were suddenly disturbed by the splashing of 

 a flock of mallards, as they darted out from under a bush of wil- 

 lows, thirty yards to my left. Throwing the little gun quickly 

 to my shoulder, I sent a charge of shot after the laggard of the 

 flock, but the distance was too great for my light load of fine 

 shot. A few feathers floated lazily down on the autumn leaves 

 as the flock disappeared around the bend out of sight. I had 

 a half-mile of good duck water to traverse yet before reaching 

 my destination and I resolved to keep a closer eye on the water. 

 I kept close in among the willows and scanned every open 

 course of water carefully, but reached my fishing ground at the 

 old dam without seeing another duck. Standing my gun against 

 the abutment where it would be in easy reach, I got out my 

 steel rod and box of tackle and prepared to cast for pickerel. 

 Where the water rushed through the waste gate, in the middle 

 of the dam, it had washed a deep hole in the middle of the 

 stream which was a favorite resort of the big ones these late 

 autumn days. There was one old-timer in the pool that I had 

 hooked twice before and I was anxious to have one more whirl 

 at him before leaving. This was the main object of my after- 

 noon tramp. Examining the line and leader carefully, I tied 

 on a Skinner spoon, hooked on a small frog and cast across the 

 pool. I trolled the tempting bait slowly across the pool and 

 along the whole length of the apron of the dam, but got no rise. 

 Twice, three times, without results. The fourth time I noticed 

 a little swirl behind the spoon just as it left the water. I knew 

 what that meant and prepared for trouble on the next pass. 

 Another cast over near the drooping willows, and as the spoon 

 reached the deepest part of the stream there was a roll of wa- 

 ter, a tug of the line, and the battle was on. I struck quick and 

 the old fellow went straight for the apron of the dam. I knew 

 if he ever reached it, it meant disaster to the line and loss of 

 the fish. I snubbed him all the light line would bear. Just at 

 the edge of the apron he leapt clear out of the water and started 

 back toward me. I held him taut on the line, and when about 

 thirty feet from me he made another turn for the willows and 



[80] 



