FISH AND FISHING. 



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our hats manifested a sociability with the 

 water that was distressing. We had to 

 get out and lift the boats over logs; and 

 more than once we were at a loss to tell 

 where the channel of the stream was. 



Our first cast was made by the side of a 

 huge log, a mile up. Bliss threw in, his 

 reel went singing and he landed a good 

 sized, wriggling trout with but brief delay. 

 We were all busy then for a time except 

 Artie. He had insisted on taking a com- 

 mon rod, and had as bait a can of angle 

 worms! The trout refused to be enticed 

 by such vulgarities, and Artie caught noth- 

 ing but branches and things. This he did 

 with great gusto, and Bliss inquired if it 

 would not be well for us to embark in the 

 lumbering business. But Artie didn't hear 

 him, and continued to cast for snags with 

 maddening persistence. Finally in his zeal 

 he leaned too far out, lost his balance, 

 and shot head foremost into the water. 

 We laid hands on him as he came up, 

 blowing, assured him, in answer to his 

 frenzied yells, that there was no danger 

 of his drowning, and urged him to stand 

 upright. He tremblingly undid his knees 

 from under his chin and found he was in 4 

 feet of water. 



We did not need to move for some time, 

 as the trout were biting well, but finally 

 we paddled up stream, stopping at several 

 places. We got a large number of trout, 

 mostly little fellows. Noon arrived, and 

 we ate our lunch in a picturesque spot on 

 a sloping bank. 



On our return down the stream we final- 

 ly landed at our old stopping place and all 

 cast in, Artie with the rest, missing a 

 neighboring tree by a hair. Suddenly he 

 gave a wild screech. His bamboo rod bent 

 double as he surged back on it and lifted 

 clear of the water something that looked 

 to my excited eyes like a whale. He held 

 it there, stupidly blinking at it with open 

 mouth, while it wriggled sinuously and 

 thrashed its powerful tail. 



"Pull him in, man!" I yelled, and Artie, 

 still gasping, managed to do so, the fish 

 falling from the hook just as Artie got 

 him over the side of the boat. I fell on 

 him and soon had him quiet. It was a 

 trout 16% inches long that afterward 

 weighed 2^ pounds. 



At first none of us could speak. 



"Well of all the bull-headed luck!" finally 

 ejaculated Bliss, staring blankly at the 

 prize. 



"And to be caught by that!" wonder- 

 ingly remarked Dick, staring at the hero. 

 Artie said nothing, but grinned apishly. 

 We paddled back in silence and pondered. 



We couldn't get Artie out the next day. 

 We felt a superstitious awe of him and 

 wanted him for a mascot, but we had to go 



without him, and we caught a pitiful half 

 dozen. The next day we returned home. 



WHY ARE THE BASS GONE? 



A number of years ago I was stationed 

 in Wittenberg, Perry county, Mo., on the 

 Mississippi river. Several creeks empty 

 into the river near the town, and at the 

 time I mention they afforded good fishing 

 for bass and crappie. It was no trick to 

 take a large string of bass from those 

 waters. They would average 2 to 3 pounds, 

 and one of 5 pounds or more was gen- 

 erally among them. I rarely used natural 

 bait, taking them chiefly on flies and small 

 spoons. When the summer vacation of '99 

 came around and the annual fishing trip 

 was due, I decided to look up my former 

 stamping-ground. The town and vicinity 

 had changed but little, and I started out 

 to try my luck. Up the creek to my fa- 

 vorite pool I hurried, weather and condi- 

 tion of water being as favorable as could 

 be desired. My first cast was answered 

 by a strike, but experience told me it was 

 no bass I had hooked. It proved to be a 

 2-pound hickory shad. After that I hooked 

 several more of the same species, a few 

 cats, and capped the climax with a large 

 gar. Greatly disappointed, I tried other 

 pools that had yielded well in former years, 

 but the result was the same — strikes ga- 

 lore, but no bass or crappie. I returned 

 with empty creel, and resolved to try the 

 other creeks. There was one, especially, 

 which had never formerly disappointed me. 

 Bass could always be had for the asking, 

 and besides it had yielded rock bass, gog- 

 gle-eyes and large sunfish. I know that 

 David Starr Jordan in "American Game 

 Fishes" ranks these latter a<? "boy fishes," 

 but I have alwavs been fond of angling for 

 them with a light rod and trout flies. But, 

 alas, my experience in that creek was only 

 another disappointment. Not only were 

 the bass gone, but all their allies. The 

 riffles, that in former years had swarmed 

 with the aforesaid boy fishes, yielded only 

 the smaller kinds of catfish, while the deep 

 pools, once the hiding places of big bass, 

 were occupied by hickory shad, larger 

 catfish or, most disgusting of all, a fish I 

 had never seen in former years, called by 

 the natives jack, or dog, fish. 



I inquired everywhere how this change 

 had been brought about, but could reach 

 no satisfactory conclusion. The waters 

 are ideal bass streams. Rock and gravel 

 form the beds; springs are numerous 

 along the banks; the creeks flow through 

 an almost unbroken forest; there are no 

 factories, nor even sawmills, along the 

 streams; the creeks were not overfished. 

 There may be, according to rumors, some 

 seining done, but if so, it is only in certain 

 localities. Most of the inhabitants respect 



