A DAY'S FISHING. 



ALLAN ERIC. 



Not every devotee of the rod and reel 

 seems aware that Lake Champlain and the 

 region round about furnish some of the 

 best fishing in the world. The waters of 

 that region teem with fish in great variety, 

 and an angler is always sure of making a 

 good haul. 



One of the many places in the Cham- 

 plain region, not known to the casual visi- 

 tor, is East creek, a stream which rises 

 somewhere over in Vermont, and, in a 

 halting way, as though doubtful of its 

 welcome, enters the lake about opposite 

 Fort Ticonderoga. At a certain point 

 up this creek the fish are so plentiful that 

 the water of the sluggish stream is filtered 

 through them. They seem to bite just for 

 amusement. An angler can never know 

 about these rare places unless he has the 

 confidence and the friendship of a compe- 

 tent guide, a native of the region and a 

 sportsman. 



We were so fortunate as to become ac- 

 quainted with such a man. May his 

 shadow never grow less! Considerable 

 preparation is necessary in order to go 

 up East" creek. Special boats are re- 

 quired. They must be in several sections, 

 like a boat sawed across 2 or 3 times, ac- 

 cording to the length of the boat, and con- 

 nected by strips of rubber, that act as 

 hinges. This enables them to follow the 

 windings of the creek. This creek, like a 

 person stuttering violently, dashes along 

 in a rapid succession of S-es. 



After a smart row up the lake from 

 The Locusts, with roaring waters tumb- 

 ling after us, we entered the mouth of the 

 creek, all well on board, but winded. In 

 one boat were 2 ladies whom I shall call 

 Jack and the Junior Partner. In the other 

 boat were Dr. C. W. Schwartz, a reader 

 and an admirer of Recreation from its 

 initial number, and a lady known as The 

 Pilot, because she is a licensed pilot for 

 Lake Champlain and the St. Lawrence 

 river. 



At the Mount, from which Ethan Allen's 

 forces hurled defiance and cast iron grape 

 shot at the British, in Colonial times, we 

 were joined by another boat, the most 

 playful craft I ever saw. In it were our 



friends, Josiah and Samantha. Josiah was 

 our guide. With a strong wind blowing 

 up the creek, the boats, at times, went 

 smoothly along without the aid of oars. 

 At other times we had hard work to keep 

 them from being blown into the tangle of 

 grass along the low shores. 



As we rubbered along we would first be 

 looking at the stern of the Doctor's boat, 

 then at the bow. Next we would meet 

 our own boat coming back. The lines, 

 with spoons attached, were let out for pos- 

 sible bass. Sometimes, where the creek 

 made an unusually sharp bend, the spoon 

 would be so far behind that the line would 

 cut across a wide expanse of country be- 

 tween the part of the creek which we had 

 left and the place where we were. It was 

 not long before a bass struck on the 

 Junior Partner's line. He didn't have long 

 to wait, ror she reeled right up, nearly to 

 the tip of the rod, and had him in the boat 

 before he had time to practice any non- 

 sense. 



Finally Josiah stopped and threw out 

 the boulder, at the end of a long rope, 

 which served for an anchor, and an- 

 nounced that we had reached the fishing 

 hole. Hooks were at once baited with 

 angle worms, the boats lying close to- 

 gether, and the fun began. The fish bit 

 the hooks and they bit one another. They 

 came into the boats in a steady stream, 2 

 at a time, on a single line. Many of them 

 were pumpkin seeds, but a good many 

 were watermelon seeds, and even little 

 cucumber seeds were caught. These 

 Josiah invariably threw overboard. 



The fishing continued until the fish 

 were actually in the way in the boats, when 

 anchors were raised, and we started back, 

 down the creek, to a place where a spring 

 of water bubbled joyously up from below. 

 There we were to camp and have dinner. 



On r the way we met The Traveler, with a 

 fiat bottomed boat, in which he had stepped 

 a mast with a sail shaoeqV like a sparerib. 

 He declared he had sailed Trom Plattsburg 

 in just one hour and 13 minutes, with the 

 wind dead astern. 



After dinner we continued down the 

 creek, and returned home with all the fish 

 any reasonable party could wish. 



Client: That little house you sent me to 

 see is in a most scandalous condition. It 

 is so damp that moss positively grows on 

 the walls. 



House Agent: Well, isn't moss good 

 enough for you? What do you expect at 

 the rent, orchids? — Exchange. 

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