THE STRIKE OF THE MUSKALONGE. 



H. Haupt, Jr. 



The strike of the Muskalonge is 

 different from that of any other 

 fish living or dead. In fact it 

 feels more like a simple hitching onto a 

 snag than like the strike of any fish ; 

 yet the " longe " does make some fearful 

 rushes on the glittering lure. I have 

 seen him emerge from his napping place 

 in the rushes and go for a bait or a min- 

 now as a terrier goes for a rat. When 

 he gets it and undertakes to stop or to 

 change direction there is trouble in the 

 water. Sometimes he turns a somer- 

 sault, throwing half his great trunk into 

 the air. In other cases he bends him- 

 self into a great, silvery crescent and 

 doubles on his track, setting the crystal 

 water into a mighty tumroil. Then 



and Northwestern Railway, to test the 

 strike of the Muskalonge. The longe, 

 as he is sometimes called, like some of 

 the rest of us, is not fond of civiliza- 

 tion and retires as that wave advances ; 

 so that he must now be sought in the 

 remote fastnessses of the wilderness to 

 the north. Who is there, who having 

 once spread his blanket on a bed of 

 balsam boughs, with his feet to the 

 blazing logs, drawn his hat over his eyes, 

 and looked into the glowing pile ; pict- 

 uring in his mind, grotesque shapes 

 and forms in the flames, till lulled into 

 unconsciousness, does not love this 

 great northern lake land ? All such men 

 are glad of a motive for visiting the 

 great forests year after year. My read- 



MUSCALONGE — Lucius Musquinongy. 



down he goes to the bottom and stops. 

 Then it is that the man at the other 

 end of the string thinks his hook has 

 fouled on a rock. Many a man in the 

 boat, a hundred or two hundred feet 

 away has, at such a moment called to 

 his oarsman to " stop and back water — 

 I've struck a snag." The sport begins 

 when the procession moves again after 

 the first halt. 



In recording the exploits of the "Nim- 

 rod " it is essential to the authenticity 

 of the narrative that the recorder should 

 be an eye witness, or at least one who 

 knows, and such I claim to be. 



Not many suns ago, and it was when 

 more than half the moons had passed, a 

 party of five, two ladies and three 

 gentlemen, started for lake Manitowish, 

 in northern Wisconsin, over the Chicago 



ers will pardon this rhapsody, but I know 

 that no one who has tried it will fail to 

 appreciate my enthusiasm. 



But what about the longe ? We had 

 a pull of twenty miles from the railway 

 station, up the Manitowish river, to the 

 lake ; and it was no easy job to pull a 

 boat against the stream, with a lot of 

 camp stuff stowed away in her. It was 

 not all rowing. Now and then a halt 

 and a plunge into the rapid stream to 

 stem the fall, waist deep, and pull the 

 disinclined boat up over the rapid. Such 

 is the sportsman's experience — he must 

 take the bitter with the sweet. It 

 is all play. It is rough and hard, 

 but it is what we call fun. The 

 sun went down and the mosquitoes 

 came up. In the woods there seems 

 to be a balance of power, poised on 



