FLY FISHING. 



131 



satisfactory. The action of the 

 rod in casting is almost confined 

 to the tip, the very worst of all 

 possible things in a fly rod. I am 

 told, however, they have lately been 

 very greatly improved. There seems 

 no good reason why they may not be 

 so perfected that, in balance and 

 action, they may surpass all other 

 rods, as they doubtless do now in 

 strength and durability. Up to this 

 hour, nevertheless, I prefer a good 

 fly-rod of wood to any other I have 

 handled. A combination of ash and 

 lancewood makes a rod very effective 

 and pleasant in action, but ash and 

 lancewood both have the fault of sag- 

 ging or bowing, in the slender parts of 

 the rod after prolonged use. The 

 only wood absolutely free from this 

 grievous fault is the bois d'arc. I 

 have a rod which I made of this wood 

 in 1875, which I prefer to any I have 



ever handled, and I have, conse- 

 quently, done the greater part of my 

 fishing with it for 19 years past. Not 

 even the tip has ever been fractured 

 and the rod is to-day absolutely 

 true and straight, as it was the first 

 time it was ever put together. I have 

 a most excellent rod of red cedar for 

 butt and middle, and bois d'arc for 

 tip. There is very little difference in 

 the weight and springiness of the 

 two woods, but the bois d'arc is 

 much less snappy than the cedar. 

 This is an old rod, and age has rend- 

 ered the two woods so nearly the 

 same color that few persons perceive 

 any difference. Probably a better 

 combination is yellow mulberry and 

 bois d'arc. I have a rod of this sort 

 very delightful in action. 



I may, later, tell what I know 

 about other parts of the fly-fisher's 

 outfit. 



A HALF-HOUR WITH THE QUAIL. 



Dr. E. P. Kremer (Juvenis). 



THE unprecedented snow storm 

 of March, 1893, made quail 

 very scarce in Pennsylvania the 

 following fall, so, when I was told of 

 a bevy of "at least thirty," it seemed 

 the proper thing to invite friend 

 John to go with me and investigate 

 them. 



Well, we did not find them though 

 we worked over a large territory, and 

 finally found ourselves in the moun- 

 tain where we hoped for a grouse 

 or two. Neither did we find them, 

 and, returning toward our team, 

 while going up a little ravine through 

 which babbled a ribbon of a rill, we 

 caught sight of my little Irish setter 

 Lorna on the side of a bowl-shaped 

 hollow, high up, and stiff as a poker. 

 " Doc, look at Lorna, I believe she 

 is pointing." " Of course she is, but 

 what the deuce can it be, for there is 

 no cover?" We walked carelessly 

 on, when suddenly up went a small 

 bevy of quail 20 feet below the little 

 red dog. 



Quick as a flash our guns flew to 

 our shoulders and each dropped a 

 bird, but mine fell in such a tangle of 

 brush that it was never recovered. 



The birds had taken to a perfect 

 wilderness of scrub oaks, where we 

 raised a few, and also a grouse, but 

 none were brought to bag, so we 

 gained our team, stored Lorna and 

 Ned in the warm straw and started 

 for home, bewailing our hard luck 

 and the scarcity of birds. There was 

 considerable talk, too, of our good 

 red dogs, for Ned was a veteran hard 

 to beat on quail, while thirteen- 

 months-old Lorna was a phenom- 

 enon. 



About 4 o'clock the mare was jog- 

 ging along some five miles trom town 

 when John suddenly pulled up and 

 exclaimed excitedly, 



" Doc ! Doc ! look there, right in 

 the road." 



I looked and there, not more than 

 a dozeir yards ahead of us in the 

 road, were ten plump quail. 



