FISH AND FISHING. 



THROUGH THE ICE. 



The lakes in Connecticut afford excellent 

 fishing through the ice. This sport is gen- 

 erally preferred by the average angler, I 

 think, to summer fishing; but my preter- 

 ence is " skittering " for pickerel. There 

 is nothing in the way of fishing that satis- 

 fies me more than enticing a 3-poUnder 

 from under the lily-pads, which lie on the 

 surface as if having a mission there. 



However, I was tempted to the ice one 

 day, and, with a friend, had some real 

 sport. Before I left my home, in Middle- 

 town, several friends who had experienced 

 the discouragements usual to the novice, 

 made all sorts of predictions as to the con- 

 dition of my creel on my return. Some of 

 them unkindly intimated I would not get a 

 bite; but encouraged by recollections of 

 boyhood successes I paid no attention to 

 their talk. 



When we reached the lake every bay was 

 occupied; so it was necessary to fish in 

 deeper water than I should otherwise have 

 chosen. After the holes were cut, I began 

 to set the traps. 



From the moment the wriggling shiner 

 disappears beneath the ice there is pleasant 

 anticipation. While success is not always 

 realized, there is an uncertainty that con- 

 tributes largely to making life worth liv- 

 ing, as far as that day is concerned, at 

 least. Where is the fisherman who ever set 

 traps who did not look at the first a dozen 

 times before he got the second ready. 

 Sometimes I have even thought the shiner 

 enjoyed the prospect, as he darted into un- 

 accustomed depths, perhaps happy that he 

 should escape the confines of the " import- 

 ed " box of sardines; or it may be, in a 

 friendly "rivalry with his neighbor, for the 

 capture of a 4-pounder. 



While I was setting my fourth trap, a 

 thrill of pleasure coursed through my sys- 

 tem; for the first trap responded to what I 

 thought was a good bite. When I pulled 

 out a pickerel that easily resisted 3 pounds 

 scale-pressure, the disappointment of the 

 morning gave way to assurance of success. 

 It was not long before I had a start toward 

 a big string. The fishermen about me be- 

 came envious of my good luck. 



During the day we caught 57 pickerel, the 

 largest of which weighed 4^2 pounds. We 

 had a number of chances to sell our catch, 

 but I could not conscientiously accept; for 

 I feared it would encourage some brother 

 angler to handle the truth with carelessness, 

 as to how he got the fish. Then, too, I could 

 not forego the pleasure of showing my 

 Middletown friends the result of the day's 

 sport. My feelings received a shock, how- 

 how much the pickerel cost! 



Porcupine, Middletown, Conn. 



HIS FIRST BASS. 



DR. F. C. KINNEY. 



Early one June, I took my aged friend, 



S , to a pond well stocked with small 



mouth black bass. Although an enthusi- 

 astic angler and an expert with the trout 

 rod, S had never tackled the fierce- 

 fighting bass. 



I acted as boatman, guide and host, rig- 

 ging my friend out with a 10-ounce lance- 

 wood rod, a multiplying reel, and 100 yards 

 of oiled silk line to which was attached a 9- 

 foot leader and a small phantom minnow. 



In the first bout, S several times 



hung the hook on the tree-tops, that 

 reached over the pond. The expression 

 on his dear old face was a study, as he 

 exclaimed, " Snagged again! " When I 

 backed the boat, to loosen the line, his 

 wrinkled face, covered with a flowing gray 

 beard, took on a pained look, as he thought 

 his awkwardness in handling the long line 

 had caused me so much extra work. 



In the third bout the reel began to sing. 

 " Snagged again," snarled my old friend. 

 With one stroke of the oars I sent the boat 

 backward. Quickly looking over the sur- 

 face of the pond, I saw a bass break water, 

 giving his head a vicious shake. 



" Yes, snagged to a bass," I said, taking 

 a quick stroke, shooting the boat ahead, to 

 take up the slack line. " Get up and reel 

 him in!" I cried, for I saw the old man 

 was rattled. " Give him the spring of the 

 rod! " 



In his excitement, he turned the reel the 

 wrong way, half the time, and — must I 

 confess it? — used some strong language. I 

 kept the boat moving, to take up the slack. 



Mr. S 's face was rapidly decreasing in 



length and proportionally widening into a 

 broad smile; for now he saw his victim 

 coming in, on the surface of the water. 

 The motion of the boat gave the fish no 

 chance to fight. 



Had I known how securely the bass was 

 hooked, I would have kept the boat still, 

 to let my friend fight it out alone. As I 

 lifted the fish into the boat, the old man 

 beamed with satisfaction; and well he 

 might, for the bass weighed 4 pounds 6 

 ounces, and was the largest of the half 

 dozen caught that day. In the evening, 

 when we were driving home in the star- 

 light, Mr. S was loud in his praises of 



the black bass as a game fish. 



COPAKE LAKE. 



New York City. 



Editor Recreation: I doubt if one in a 

 hundred of your readers has ever heard 

 of Copake lake. I have visited it a number 



393 



