HARD LINES AT KITCHAWAN. 



G. A. MACK. 



Away up in the Northeastern part of 

 Westchester county, New York, 10 miles 

 from a railroad, there lies, beneath a blanket 

 of miasmatic fog, a sheet of water known in- 

 differently as Cross pond or Kitchawan lake. 

 Tradition derives the latter name from a 

 tribe of Indians erstwhile dwelling on its 

 malarious banks. The gentle aborigines 

 were unacquainted with the specific proper- 

 ties of quinine, and a thousand moons have 

 waxed and waned since the spirit of the last 

 Kitchawan shook loose from its fevered 

 tenement and sought a drier if not more 

 salubrious clime. A less poetic legend at- 

 tributes the christening of the lake to the 

 first Hibernian who tried to lure fish from 

 its turbid waters and failed to " kitch a wan." 



The lake is about 2 miles in circumference 

 and of great depth; the water being in some 

 places almost 6 feet deep and the mud from 

 8 to 80. There are spots where a man can 

 reach the shore dryfooted — by using stilts. 

 At all other points the surrounding swamp 

 is impassable. The water is full of pickerel 

 grass and much of it covered with pond 

 lilies, on whose fronds gigantic frogs blink 

 meditatively. Great snapping turtles bask 

 on partially submerged stumps, water 

 snakes ply to and fro, while lesser aquatic 

 beasts of various degrees of ugliness wiggle 

 in schools from shoal to shallow. An oc- 

 casional blue heron stands sentry over the 

 watery desolation, hell-divers rush aim- 

 lessly over its surface like avian tugboats 

 looking for a tow, and shore birds teeter 

 languidly wherever they can find sufficiently 

 solid footing. Kitchawan is a modest tribu- 

 tary to the Croton watershed, and when its 

 quota reaches the city it furnishes steady oc- 

 cupation to the Registrar of Mortuary Sta- 

 tistics. 



I was beguiled to this delectable region by 

 the assurance that it afforded an ideal camp- 

 ing ground. Always ready to share my joys 

 and their attendant expense I took with me 

 2 friends and my son. On a scorching Au- 

 gust day we reached the station nearest our 

 destination and hired a team to carry our im- 

 pedimenta. There was no room on the 

 wagon for us, and we started jauntily to 

 walk 10 miles. I do not know how many 

 hills we crossed. I think we counted 2"] be- 

 fore we became delirious. However, we 

 struggled on and came at last to the lake. It 

 looked promising. The fog had taken a day 

 off, the pond lilies were in bloom and their 

 fragrance masked the odor of decaying veg- 

 etation. All over the open water were 

 widening, circular ripples made, we fondly 

 imagined, by pickerel if not by bass. Heat 

 and fatigue were forgotten. We got the 

 tent up, made all snug and went fishing. 

 We had chartered a boat for our stay, but 

 now discovered that on Kitchawan boats 



are kept locked up and whoever wants one 

 must bail it out. So the boy was sent back 

 a mile to the farm house for the key and the 

 bailer. We fished 3 hours and disgraced an 

 aforetime respectable rod by catching with 

 it a 2 ounce clouder. Then darkness and 

 the fog came together and as we reached 

 camp it began to rain. We had no floor 

 cloth and had forgotten to dig a trench 

 around the tent. So we spent the night lis- 

 tening to the merry gurgle of brooklets 

 through our blankets. 



The rain continued all next day. We 

 fished in the morning and by our combined 

 efforts captured an infant catfish. The af- 

 ternoon we spent in wandering disconso- 

 lately about the country, interviewing the 

 natives. One and all praised their pond. 

 " Yes, Sir," they said, " its ther best fishin' 

 lake in the county. Thers pickerel in it bigs 

 yer arm an' perch ut 'ill weigh more'en a 

 pound." 



On the subject of bait they differed. 

 " Whatcher try 'em on?" one inquired. 

 " Minners? Huh! minners is no good; try 

 'em on frogs an' yer'll ketch 'em sure." 



The next native sniffed scornfully at men- 

 tion of frogs. " Frogs is no good; try 'em 

 on a gob of worms." 



The next advised the use of dobsons, and 

 so on. We tried every procurable kind of 

 bait, and did not catch fish enough to feed 

 a cat. Then condolences were in order. 

 Our advisers would visit the camp at night 

 and mourn with us. " Shaw! " they would 

 say, " its tew bad yer can't ketch no fish. 

 Fishin' was fine last week and '11 be good 

 agin' arter a change o' moon. Be yer sure 

 yer know how to fish? " 



This was too much, and we retired forth- 

 with from piscatorial pursuits. Thereafter, 

 when a Ashless fisherman landed at the 

 camp to ask questions, we retailed chestnuts. 

 " Oh, yes; " we would chant in chorus, 

 "best fishin' lake in the county; pickerel 

 bigs yer arm and perch 'ut weigh a pound. 

 Try 'em last week on anything yer haven't 

 got and yer'll ketch 'em sure." 



Despite their insane dulusions regarding 

 the fishing in Kitchawan, the natives of the 

 region are an amiable and obliging lot. A lit- 

 tle behind the age in some respects, perhaps, 

 but well up in current prices and the value of 

 money. Their instant knowledge of any 

 fluctuation in the price of country produce 

 was amazing. Each farmer seemed to have 

 a direct wire to the Exchange. There was a 

 booming bull market right through our 

 stay. Every time we wanted eggs we 

 learned the price had advanced 2 cents a 

 dozen over night. Butter rose steadily from 

 22 to 30 cents. Garden stuff was firm and 

 in great demand, though little was taken 

 owing to moonlight nights. Green field 



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