
FISH AND FISHING. 
ON MICHIGAN LAKES. 
F. L. DECKER. 
Michigan is called the Lake State, and 
well deserves the title. It borders for 
many hundred miles on 4 of the great 
lakes, and has 5,000 small lakes scattered 
over its peninsulas. These lakes are sup- 
posed to be well stocked with fish, con- 
sequently the inhabitants are, as might be 
expected, enthusiastic fishermen. When I 
came to Western Michigan, almost the 
first thing I heard about was the fishing. 
After hearing many thrilling tales I at 
length waxed enthusiastic, and decided to 
try my luck. ~It was late in the winter 
and the ice was 2 feet thick. One morn- 
ing I sallied forth, armed with an axe, and 
well supplied with lines, hooks, and bait. 
As I tramped toward the lake I saw vis- 
ions of 12-pound pickerel and expected 
to return at noon with as many fish as I 
could carry. Arriving at the lake, I hacked 
a hole through the ice, and put in my lines. 
Then followed a long weary wait. Instead 
of getting a bite that would “almost pull 
me in,’ I did not even get a nibble. After 
several hours of freezing, I began to think 
it would be well to make allowances for 
people who tell fish stories. At noon I 
went back to the house prepared to give 
my loose-tongued friends a piece of my 
mind. They smoothed matters over—said 
it was not just the right kind of a day for 
fishing any way. I made several further 
attempts, all of them attended with little 
success, and always had my poor luck ex- 
plained by my friends. This, or-that; 
or the other thing was not right. When 
I wanted some of them to go with me, 
they pretended they did not have time. 
Probably they knew they could not catch 
anything if they did go. 
I do not see why people exaggerate so 
enormously when they tell fish stories. 
I once heard of a minister who said boys . 
should be brought up to go fishing and 
iu the truth. The 2 are not compat- 
ible. 
One evening a friend and I were enter- 
tained at the home of a farmer who lived 
near a lake. Many stories were told, main- 
ly about fishing. Our host was a good 
story teller, and perfectly willing to talk, 
especially after lubricating his throat with 
something he kept in a demijohn. After 
several stories, each followed by a lubrica- 
tion, he told how, one morning he went 
fishing and in % hour caught 6 bass that 
averaged g pounds apiece, and 7 pickerel, 
the shortest of which was 3 feet long. 
“Are you sure you did not catch a whale 
or a Ssea-serpent?” was asked. “Well, not 
that time, but once I was fishing with a 
heavy line and hooked something that 
towed the boat around, and several times 
almost swamped it by turning short. At 
last the line was pulled right out of my 
hands. Likely enough it was a small sea- 
serpent that did it.” 

A SURPRISE PARTY. 
PALMER. 
I had recently arrived in Canada from 
the old country and of course brought with 
me old-fashioned ideas of fishing. Finding 
my tackle unsuited to. Canadian fishing, I 
bought a light ash and lancewood rod. 
With it I caught many pickerel along the 
rocky shore of the river. There was one 
reach in particular that rarely failed to 
furnish 2 or 3 fish. At the upper end of it 
was a large bay which usually had booms 
of saw logs in it. »The current would 
sweep out from the bay and along the 
rocky shore with several eddies caused 
by the irregularity of the bank, until it lost 
itself in the next bay. I used a float, or 
bob, and, wading as far up as the logs, 
would cast well out into the stream and 
let the current take the bait in shore. 
One evening I had arrived nearly at the 
end of the reach, when I found my bob 
arrested. At first I thought my hook had 
caught on the bottom, but saw the bob 
was slowly making up stream. I conclud- 
ed I had a small pickerel and waited for 
him to swallow the bait. At length I 
gave a slight tilt to my rod to harpoon 
him, but found I had something heavier 
than usual to contend with. The fish did 
not seem in the least disturbed but still 
kept up stream. I gave a steady lift and 
was rewarded by a splash and a rush of the 
fish out into the deep water. I watched 
the line running out and gradually closed 
my hand on it, letting the fish feel he was 
not going to have it all his own way, but 
expected no more than to see my line 
part, as it was getting short on the reel. 
It was kill or cure, so I gave him the 
butt. After a short fight I was amazed to 
find I could get my fish gradually in to- 
ward shore. When close in he began 
fighting his way up stream again. I gave 
him a reminder and once more brought 
him in. Just as he started for his third 
rush a boy appeared around the bend, 
in a boat, and without any palaver took me 
on board. We were getting near the logs, 
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