THE AMERICAN SPORTSMAN'S JOURNAL. 



[Entered According to Act of Congress, In the Year 1879, by the Forest <fc Stream Publishing Company, In the Offloe of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.: 



», Four Oolhirs a Year ] 

 ren Cents a Copy. 

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NEW YORK, THURSDAY, MAY 15, 1879. 



For Forest and Stream and Rod and Gun. 

 THE SEA GULL. 



SEA-BIR D I Skimmer of the wave ! 

 Whither doth thy journey tend ? 

 la It to some southern shore, 



Where the meadow-rushes bend, 

 Where the orange-blossoms blow, 



Where the aloe and the palm 



Flourish, and magnolias glow, 



Filling all the air with balm f 



naply, Is thy pilgrim wing 



Flitting to some northern bar, 

 Where the rooky reef runs out 



Ami the sand beach stretches far T 

 There In hot and silvery sand 



All thy pearly eggs to lay, 

 There to teach thy little brood 



O'er the breaking surf to play. 



Haply, sailing o'er the;brine, 

 Painted 'galnBt the lurid sky ; 



O'er the gray horizon's verge 

 Thou dost even now descry 



Some lone hark with shatter'd mast, 

 Bulwarks swept and tatter'd Bull, 



Fighting with the ocean blast- 

 Lost and shlpwreck'd In the gale ! 



Restless, roving, lonely birdl 



Wanderer of the pathless seas ; 

 Now where tropic woods are atlrr'd, 



Now where drifting icebergs freeze ; 

 Seldom doth the solid shore 



See thy folded pinions droop ; 

 Only waves, that tumbling pour, 



Lure thee from thy airy sweep. 



Isaac mcLelian. 



For Forest and Stream, and Bod and Gun. 



jjjikq Jffohmg in ^nrderhill §,reek, 



LEST the readers of Forest and Stream should be dis- 

 appointed in expectation of reading a scientific account 

 of a day's pike fishing, let me say in advance that neither 

 myself nor my darkey friend are scientific fishermen, hut, on 

 the contrary, operated in the most primitive fashion. 



Bob Brown, the colored huntsman who figured so exten- 

 sively in my coon hunting sketch (which appeared in Forest 

 and Stream a few weeks ago), had often invited me to go 

 " pikin' " fas he termed it) up the creek, promising me a good 

 day's sport, but I was too much occupied with the birds to 

 give the matter serious consideration. I am very fond of 

 fishing during the spring and summer, when game birds are 

 out of season ; but from the 1st of September until the sea- 

 son is out I devote all my spare time to the birds. 



I was spending a week with my friend Tom Harrington, 

 on my annual quail shooting excursion in November, and the 

 weather had settled quite warm ; so much so, inueed, that it 

 was laborious both for myself and dog, and I concluded to 

 humor Bob and put in a day with him on the creek— not that 

 I expected to catch any fish, but merely for a day's rest. I 

 walked over to Fork Landing in the evening, and meeting 

 Bob, he broached the subject again. 



" Fine weather for pikin", sir," said he. " Dey'll bite like 

 dogs to-morrer mornin' ; an' dar'll be a white frost in de mor- 

 nin', an' de sun'll come up warm, an' we'll kotch a turn of 

 'em. Better make up yer mind to go, an' let de birds an' 

 dogs hev a day's rest ; 'sides dat, ye git a day's rest yer own 

 self, sir." 



There was sound logic in Bob's argument, for I was pretty 

 well run down, and my dog's feet were cut and sore, and 

 after arranging to meet him at Carpenter's Bridge the next 

 morning, I went home to overhaul my fishing tackle. I al- 

 ways carry a wallet, with an assortment of hooks and snoods, 

 in my shooting coat ; it does not occupy much space, and is 

 very handy. 



The next morning my little friend Ruth had me an early 

 breakfast, and before seven o'clock I was standing on Car- 

 penters Bridge, which spans the Murderkill Creek, awaiting 

 the coming ol Bob. It was one of those mild, mellow, In- 

 dian summer mornings; one of those soft, sweet days which, 

 when cold winter is stealing on, come, like the visits of an 

 angel, between the first sharp white frosts and the stern 



weather that so soon succeeds them, visiting the last flowers 

 of autumn with more than the balminess of spring, and cloth- 

 ing the woodlands in a robe of more than summer glory. 



The old Murderkill Creek makes a broad sweep after it 

 crosses the road under Carpenter's Bridge, and forms a mini- 

 ature lake, and it lay stretched out beneath the cloudless sky, 

 pure and unbroken as a mirror, with its wooded shores gleam- 

 ing aloft in unnumbered hues and unrivalled radiance, which 

 autumn nowhere sheds with so lavish a hand as in an Amer- 

 ican woods, and sleeping below, reflected to the smallest leaf 

 on the calm surface of the water. Attached to the bridge by 

 a long chain was an old waterlogged canoe, which had once 

 been used as a fishing boat, but now it was almost ready to 

 fall to pieces from old age : — 



" The stern, half sunk lu the slimy wave. 

 Rots slowly away in Its living grave ; 

 And the green moss creeps o'er Its dull decay, 

 Hiding the mouldering dust away. 

 Like the hand that plants o'er the tomb a dower, 

 Or the ivy that mantles the fallen tower; 

 While many a blossom of loveliest hue 

 Springs o'er the stern of the old canoe. 



" The currentless waters are dead and still, 

 Bnt the light wind plajs with the boat at will ; 

 And lazily, in aiid out again, 

 it floats tne length or the rusty chain, 

 Like the weary march of the hands of time, 

 That meet and part at the noontide chime. 

 And the shore is telssed at. each turning anew 

 By the dripping bow of the old canoe." 



The air was breathless, yet so pure and fresh that the brisk- 

 est breeze that ever fanned the ocean came not more grate- 

 fully to the cheek and brow than that delicious calm in which 

 the most, delicalc leaf alone might be seen to quiver, while all 

 the other foliage hung motionless and voiceless. Away off, 

 on a tall, leafless tree, sat, solitary and alone, a huge fish- 

 hawk, looking down over his demesne of wood and water, 

 an undisputed monarch. It was a lovely scene, and I hope 

 my readers will pardon me for indulging in this reverie ; but 

 being an enthusiastic and devoted sportsman and a dear lover 

 of nature, I read " books in running brooks, sermons in 

 stones, and good in everything." I was aroused from the 

 contemplation of the scene by the cheerful voice of Bob, who 

 came paddling along in his dug-out. 



" You're on time, sir, I see," said he. " Did ye eber see a 

 pootier mornin' ? How dem puppies of mine 'ud run a fox 

 dis mornin' ! Ah, ah ! wouldn't he leave a red-hot trail ! 

 You may just bet on it." And Bob guided his boat to the 

 spot where I was standing, and, stepping aboard, we pushed 

 off up the creek to the fishing-grounds. 



He had fine, short, stout rods in the boat, with lines wound 

 around them, and one large, rusty hook on each line. I 

 asked him what he intended to use for bait, and he replied 

 that " pikes are very particular — sometimes I use fat pork an' 

 sometimes cooked meat an' worms ; an' sometimes dey don't 

 bite at neither one. An' den I kotch some shiners. Ah! 

 shiners is de boys ! I sometimes think pikes must be some 

 kin to shiners j dey loves 'em so." (Bob's shiners were min- 

 nows and smail roach.) 



I took out my wallet and selected a couple of small perch 

 hooks snooded on gut, fastened them with a piece of sea 

 grass, and with a buckshot for a sinker and a small worm on 

 each hook, threw it over the side of the boat just as Bob had 

 come to an anchor. 



" What ye gwine to do, sir ?" asked Bob. 



" I am trying to catch some shiners for bait," I replied; 

 and at that moment I lifted one into the boat. 



"Lena' me hev a hook, too," said he, "I'll kotch some." 



I opened my wallet to get one for him, and his eyes ex- 

 panded with delight. "I neber seed de like," said he. 

 "Dem's de nicest hooks I eber laid my eyes on. What fine 

 pints dey've got ! Ef a fish comes anywhere nigh 'em he's 

 bound to get hooked." 



Bob selected a hook, and I gave him a line, and he went to 

 fishing, and in a short time we had all the small fish we re- 

 quired. Bob greatly admired the small hooks, and said : " Ef 

 I only hed some o' dem next summer I'd kotch a boat-load of 

 white perch any day." I gave him half a dozen, and enough 

 sea grass to make three or four small lines, and the old fellow 

 was happy. 



He paddled along up the creek a short distance, and made 

 the boat fast to an overhanging branch of an old oak, and got 

 his pike lines ready. 



" Is this our place ?" I asked. 



"Yes, sir ; dis is Khody's Hole, one o' de best places in de 

 creek for pikin'. I've knowd Mr. Tommy Brown to kotch a 

 dozen yere of a mornin', an' not one of 'em less'n two pounds, 

 an' from dat to six an' six 'n a half. I tell ye, sir, he is a 

 fish'man, shuah. 



I took in Bob's six and a half pound pike with a good deal 

 of allowance for shrinkage, and replied : 



" Well, if I catch a fish of that Bize I don't know which 

 will be the most surprised, myself or the fish." 



" I know ye'll do it, sir," said Bob, " ef ye only jist do as'I 

 do." 



We got to fishing. Bob put out three lines ; baiting one 

 with pork, another with cooked meat, and the third with a 

 shiner, saying : " I'm gwine to see what sort of appetites dese 

 pikes has got ; ye hev to find out fust what dey like." I was 

 satisfied with one line, as I was not over.confident as to our 

 success. 



Bob's eyes rolled about unceasingly, gazing first at one line 



and then at the other, and 1 was paying more attention to 

 him than to my own line. My sinker was cast in toward the 

 shore, aad I was fishing close under the roots of the oak to 

 which our boat was tied, when I felt a smart tug at my line, 

 and giving the rod a flirt sideways, I hooked the fish and 

 brought a beautiful pike of about two pounds weight into the 

 boat. It was the largest pike I had ever caught, and I was 

 highly pleased, while Bob was delighted, and gave vent to his 

 feelings in a loud yah-ha-ha that could have been heard a mile 

 in the calm morning air. 



"Don't make such a racket," said I, " you'll frighten the 

 fish." 



" Lor, honey, dey don' mind dat a bit. What kind o' bait 

 did you kotch dat teller wid?" 



"Shiner, "I replied. 



"Den I'll use shiner," said he. "Sumfftin' cur'ous 'bout 

 pikes, sir; dey wouldn't bite at nuffin' but shiners to-day, no 

 matter what else we use. 



Bob took up his three lines, one of which was baited with 

 a shiner, and re-baited all of them, and I cast mine over the 

 side again, very well satisfied, even though I didn't get 

 another bite. Bob sat like a statue, his great eyes intently 

 fixed upon one rod which extended over the stern of the boat, 

 while he grasped the others, one in each hand, waiting for 

 the least indication of a nibble. I watched him attentively, 

 and his dark features were a study. His thick lips were 

 firmly closed, and the lines around his mouth had deepened 

 into f urrows ; he had laid aside his hat, and the veins upon 

 his high, broad forehead were swollen and corrugated, while 

 his eyes fairly danced with excitement. He had inclined his 

 body a little forward, his right hand twitching nervously, and 

 quick as lightning, he whirled his right-hand rod around the 

 stern of the boat, and raising it out of the water with a jerk, 

 landed a four-pound pike directly into my lap. The move- 

 ment was so sudden that I started up and let go of my rod and 

 it fell overboard, but I secured it agaiD, and the fish having 

 fallen into the bottom of the boat lay upon its side flapping 

 the bottom board with its broad tail. 



"Lor," said Bob, ashe was about unhooking him, "ain'thea 

 bully feller. Does me good to kotch one like dat. Look out 

 fur dat little maple pole, hit's gwme away ; dar'sa fish on it." 

 Pull it up !" he shouted. 



I reached for the rod, and imitating Bob's jerk as well as I 

 could, hooked a pike that weighed about a pound and a half, 

 and got it safely into the boat. 



"You're beatin' me, sir," said he. 



" Oh, no !" I replied ; " that's your fish, Bob, I caught him 

 on your line, and it counts for you. I think I've caught my 

 share, at all events I've caught more than I expected." 



Bob had his hook re-baited, and in the water again in a 

 short-time, and it was not long before he hooked another fine 

 pike. We fished until ten o'clock ; he caueht six and I caught 

 three, when he hooked on to one that taxed all his ingenuity. 

 The fish was under the sunken roots of the old oak, and Bob 

 was afraid his tackle would snap, although it was a stout liDe 

 and not more than seven feet long. I took in all the other 

 lines, and was ready to loose the boat from the tree when he 

 exclaimed 



"By golly, he's loose ! ontie dat painter." 



I had the boat loose in an instant, and seizing the paddle, 

 turned her head so as to give him a fair chance. (What aglorious 

 moment that would have been for a scientific fisherman with 

 the proper tackle— how he would have played that noble fish 

 — but Bob knew nothing but main strength.) The fish darted 

 up the creek, and I paddled the boat after him, thus relieving 

 the strain upon the line. 



Bob had his hands full j he had been a waterman in his 

 younger days, and issued his orders like an old sailor. 



" Starbo'd a little," said he ; " now rush her frpo, dis line's 

 gittin' mighty tight, an' 1'se afeard he'll break loose. Port, 

 now, port, hard, sir. So, steady — now yer right." 



" You attend to your line, Bob," said I, "and I'll try to 

 keep up with him. You should have a longer line and play 

 him." 



" Dar's no play 'bout dis feller, he means bizness," said Bob, 

 and so it appeared. I had all I could do to keep up with him, 

 until finally he darted for the bank and dived into a deep 

 hole close under the roots of a tree. 



"He's tired out now," said I, "and you've got to get him 

 into the boat before he takes a fresh start, or he'll leave you 

 without even saying good-bye. Haul him up now, and I'll 

 help you." 



Bob gave a vigorous pull and raised the fish to the top of 

 the water. He was a beauty — a seven-pounder. I was afraid 

 he would cut the line with his sharp teeth, and told Bob to 

 hold on hard, and thus keep his mouth open, which he did. 

 Fortunately there was an old peach basket in the boat, and I 

 used it for a landing-net, by slipping the painter through the 

 hand-holes and sinking it under the fish, while Bob managed 

 to get him into it, and we drew the pike iuto the boat. 



The old darkey was in ecatacies. " Did you eber see de 

 like?" said he. "Lor' bress my soul! dat beats de biggest 

 pike eber I seed. Jes' look at 'im, hain't he a rouser ? I wish 

 you had dat feller iu Phildelfy. How de folks 'ud look. 

 Nobody would eber b'leeve he were kotched on a little bit of 

 line like dis. Look at 'ira floppin' — hain't he powerful ? Flop 

 away, ole feller ; do yer best — ye can't bust dis ole boat. Yer 

 safe 'nuff now— yah I yah ! Won't he be good biled, with 

 pa'sley an' drawd butter? My, oh!" and Bob smacked bia 

 lips in anticipation of his feast. 



