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NEW YORK, THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 1, 1877. 



( Volume 7, Number 36. 



1 17 Chatham St. (City Hall Mqr.) 



V 



#0* £$*Qnt. 



THE FISHERMAN OP THE LITTLE PALLS*' 



THERE was an ancient flshermau, 

 His name it was Joe Payne; 

 His like aloug the Little Falls 

 We ne'er shall find again. 



He was a bronzed old grizzly man, 



And tall, and straight, and tough; 

 And looked as if he in his days 

 Had journeyed over rugged ways, 

 And weathered seasons rough. 



Within sound of the Little Falls 

 Was born our good old Joe— 



The Falls whose roar his music was 

 For seventy years or so. 



His education was but slight— 



Small his scholastic lore; 

 But of Potomac's fishy folk 



Few men than he know more. 



A fisherman he long had been, 



For fishing was his joy; 

 And shoals of herring, rock and perch 



He caught, both man and boy. 



And many a sturdy sturgeon, too, 

 To those old shores he brought; 



And catfish numberless, and bass, 

 With dip and hook he caught. 



The phantom-drummer oft he heard, 



That haunts the Little Falls, 

 Who with his weird tattoo, 'tis thought, 



Some fated fisher calls. 



Or else the river from its deepa 



The body of one drowned 

 Brings up, when echoes o'er its waves 



That drum's mysterious sound. 



Joe did not fear the phantom much, 



Yet once, as he averred, 

 When into the "upper spout" he fell, 

 Borne on the wind with mournful swell, 

 That drum he thought he heard. * 



And once, too, when a floating log 



His fishing-boat upeet, 

 And in he soused, the Falls below, 



He heard a note, which, drum or no, 

 He never could forget. 



"And I will take my oath," said he. 



"One moonlight night did climb, 

 While I was fishin' free from care, 

 The drummer into my boat, an* there, 

 As beatin' a tattoo, the air 



He beat a good long time. 



"I'm growin' old," said Joe, "and though 



Perhaps I should prefer 

 To have my body laid in earth, 



As all my forbears were. 



"I should not be surprised nor care 



To hear that drummer's drum 

 Beat its tattoo for me at last, 

 Ana I, into the waters cant, 



Thence nevermore should come." 



How he lived on from year to year, 



I' faith, I scarcely know, 

 For fishing was his only trade, 



And honest, aye, was Joe. 



A quite large family raised he, 



Of girls and boys some ten— 

 "How fast time flies!" quoth Joe, "they all 



Are women grown and men. 



"Ah, where are now my good friends all — 



The big men 1 have known, 

 With whom I've rowed in former days — 



With whom the line I've thrown? 



"Many o' tham to forrin' parts 



Have wandered far away, 

 And— that's what makes me reel so old- 

 Many o' them have long been cold 



Beneath the graveyard clay. 



"How glad the city they would leave, 



To have a mornin's sport, 

 To breathe the river's healthful air, 

 And to forgit all office care, 



Returnin' happier for't!" 



He liked to tell of Webster- Dan, 



Whom very well he knew;— 

 "He was, indeed a whole-souled man!" 



Quoth Joe— "good fisher, too, 



"I mind me well the day when he 



His biggest rock fish took. 

 When we swung o'er the waters wild, 

 He clapped hi* hands like a little child, 



And joy was in his look. 



"The fish weighed sixteen pounds. When he 



The prize I gaffed beheld, 

 Into the boat his rod he threw, 

 And jumped upon his feet— 'tis true— 



And yelled— Lord, how he yelled! 



"And when we got to shore, so pleased 



Was he such fish to inveigle, 

 Into his poke his hand put he, 

 And out he drawed and gev t ) me 



A golden bright half-eagle!" 



Then of George Gibson Joe would talk; 

 "A gineral brave was he; 



Light tackle— fancy flies he used- 

 Kind, gentle as man could be. 



"A mighty fine old man!— he loved 



Queer tlsuuT yarns to tell; 

 All through the country he had fished, 



And he fished wonderous well. 



"When last he came up here to fish, 



His body-servant and I— 

 So weak he was— held the old man up, 



That he mought throw the fly . " 



"Another of my friends," said Joe, 



"Was Guv'nor George M. Bibb. 

 Great times together we have had! 

 When I say he was almost mad 



On fishin', taint no fib. 



"The Guv'nor was a gentleman 



O' the genu ine old school. 

 He haled flies— he fished with bait, 



And heeded no man's rule. 

 From airly morn till evenin' late 



His ardor did not cool," 



And Crampton, British Minister, 



A good friend was of Joe's, 

 Who, when a fish he couldn't catch, 

 Would take out sketch-book, and would sketch, 



As his friend Lauman knows. 



Am 



and Lanman, too, would fish with Joe, 



Who, when a fish wouldn't bite, 

 Would buy the ones that Joe had dipped, 

 And, as to him the wink he tipped, 

 Joe always said, "All" right!'' 



And Fredericka Bremer once 



Acquaintance made with Joe, 

 Who questioned him till he was wild, 



His way of life to show. 



And o'er the rocks she skipped and tripped 



Like a young mountain roe. 

 And many flowers and pl-mts she plucked, 

 And watched the waters flow. 



Joe she mistook, for in her book 



Of thiugs American, 

 She speaks of him as if he were 



A rude, half-savage man. 



With her was Dorothea Dix, 



Who, as Bibb was on fishing, 

 Was almost mad— but it was in 



Well doing and well-wishing. 



Oh, Joe was full of pleasant yarns 



Of people he had known, 

 And days that did his fishing mar, 

 When o'er Virginian hills afar, 

 The blaring trump of civil war 



lull long and loud was blown. 



And Joe was aye a gentleman, 



Though rough the clothes he wore, 

 And through a long and toilsome life, 

 With winds and waters wild at strife, 

 Heaped up no golden store. 



None knew like him the Little Fallo, 



Its eddies, rocks and pools; 

 And few like him could aip the net, 

 The sturgeon grapple, the seine set, 



And wield all fishing tools. 



But honest Joe is dead and gone; 



On January seven, 

 To death be yielded up his spirite, 

 And to his loved Falls bade "Good-night--" 



His soul is now in heaven. 



The phantom-drummer did not beat 



For him his dread tattoo; 

 Upon dry land he found a grave, 

 And o'er his dust will wild-flowers wave, 



And o'er it weep the dew. 



The fish, no doabt, are glad he's gone, 

 For he was still their foe. 



Rejoice will they of every class, 

 The rock, perch, sturgeon, catfish, bass. 

 But we must mourn for Joe. 



Two years beyond three-score and ten 



The kindly Fates had lent him; 

 The little Falls will mournful roar 

 Will aye for him a requiem pour, 



Ana we shall long lament him. 



W. L, Shoemaker. 



* Joseph Payne, a man well known in Georgetown for many years, 

 died at his residence near the Chain bridge, Snndav morning, at 6 o'clock, 

 aged 72 years.— The Evening Star, January 8th, 1877. 



#** For most of the incidents and anecdotes embodied in the above 

 ballad, I am indebted to an article by my friend, Charles Lanman, the 

 well known ampler, artist and author. W. L. S. 



GAME AND FISH* OF LOUISIANA. 



if . , . 



Editor Forest and Stream :— 



As there appears to be no person writing from this sec- 

 tion of country in regard to game for both rod and gun, a 

 description of some of the fishing and hunting grounds 

 may not be uninteresting to your numerous readers. 



Here, as in most of the inland "waters of the south are 

 found the bass and pike, the former called trout, the latter 

 jack. Of the bass there are two varieties, the striped and 

 black, though few of the latter. South of this place on 

 Ked river, at the distance of twenty-two miles, flows Little 

 river, its general course being parallel with the Ked, 

 which passes through Catahoola Lake, which is merely an 

 enlargement of the river, empties into Black river, which 

 in its turn empties into Red river near its confluence with 

 the Mississippi. Between this river and Little river there 

 are three streams viz. Flagon, Clear and Big Creeks, dis- 

 tant, five, twelve and fifteen miles respectively, their gen- 

 eral direction is parallel with the Red river, until they near 

 their mouths where they make a sweeping bend to the 

 north and east and empty into Little river. These streams 

 all have their rise in the pine woods and fed by innumer- 

 able springs, and the water is always cool. In the spring 

 these water courses rise from ten to twenty-five feet, over- 

 flowing their banks and submerging the bottomlands which 

 extend back from a few yards to a mile. The continuance 

 of high water depends upon the adjoining rivers, especially 

 the "Father of Waters." They generally subside to with- 

 in their banks by the middle of June and by the first ©f 

 July they have resulted in a succesion of holes of more or 

 less depth, connected by passages of shallow water. The 

 holes as a rule are mud bottom, while the passages are 

 saud, gravel, and sometimes rock. The bottom lands are 

 heavily timbered with cottonwood, ash, willow, holly, 

 cypress, and the grand magnolia and a dence undergrowth. 

 As the waters subside there is generally an open, clear 

 space of from ten to fifty feet along the margin of the 

 stream, thus giving ample room to cast the line. 



About the middie of June the bass trout, commence to 

 ran up these streams, but the best fishing does not com- 

 mence until the first of July, continuing through August 

 and September, though a few are taken through all the 

 months of the year, excepting in very high water. On 

 these streams, especially Clear and Big creek, one is sure 

 to find the very best of sport, 



There is one place I have not yet mentioned, three miles 

 beyond Little river, which is far excellence the fishing 

 ground for trout. The stream, Trout creek, is but fifteen 

 miles long, running in a southerly direction, emptying into 

 Little river. There is a dam five miles from the mouth 

 which prevents the fish from ascending any higher, and 

 none are found for two miles from its mouth, thus the fish- 

 ing grounds are confined to a distance of three miles, but 

 Oh! golly! However, more of this anon. 



I do not mean to slight the "Jack," for he is a splendid 

 fellow, gamy as he can be, and willing to fight to the death. 

 I rather like hooking one, and there are some big ones, but 

 they are not very numerous in these streams. Query: Are 

 the bass too many for them? but west of here in some of 

 the streams they appear to have their own way, keeping 

 the upper hand of the bass. Of the Sackali there are bul 

 few. I wish there were more, for I consider them second 

 to none as a tabje fiish, and they are equally as gamy as 

 the bass. IVch are abundant in all varieties. In the rivers 

 are found the cat, buffalo, and other varieties; also the bar 

 fish, which takes its name from always being found near 

 sand bars in low water. I am of opinion they are a species 

 of the bars, the marks being the same. 



The game prevalent, is deer, wild turkey, ducks, geese, 

 and quail, and occasionally bear* panther and wild cat Of 

 the first named there is probably no section of country 

 where they are more numerous and where there is more 

 sport in the hunt, which is generally on horseback and with; 



