WITH A PEELED POLE. 



FREDERIC RIGELOW. 



Over the lapse of years I can vividly re- 

 call my first experience in trout fishing. 

 Nothing in the past has so deeply rooted 

 itself in my memory. Even the remem- 

 brance of the boyhood times when I had 

 to hoe corn or to pick up potatoes on pleas- 

 ant days, or to saw wood in the shed, or to 

 sprout potatoes in the damp cellar on rainy 

 days, has nearly faded; but my youthful 

 fishing days are still fresh in my memory. 



It was in early June when my uncle per- 

 mitted me to accompany him trout fishing 

 for the first time. The trees were in leaf, 

 the violets in bloom, and all nature was 

 rushing forth to meet summer. As we 

 were to go before sunrise of the next day, 

 I was sent early to bed so as to be ready 

 for the morning walk to Long Lake creek, 

 the favorite trout stream of the neighbor- 

 hood. How long it took me to go to sleep 

 that evening ! When finally I did, I 

 dreamed all night of the trout I was to 

 catch on the morrow. 



I was a small, freckle-faced lad, full of 

 hope and wonder. I wore an old straw 

 hat, well ventilated, a calico shirt, a 

 pair of homemade trousers, and went 

 barefooted. To wear shoes and stockings 

 during the warm weather was the surest 

 and quickest way for a boy to lose his so- 

 cial standing among the other boys. With 

 this apparel it took me about as long to 

 dress as it did to repeat twice 2. 



The tackle I possessed would make a boy 

 of today smile. Jointed rods, automatic 

 reels, landing nets, and gorgeous flies of 

 many kinds and colors were unknown to a 

 boy of my time. My tackle was simple 

 and strong ; everything was homemade ex- 

 cept the hook and line. My rod was a 

 peeled ironwood pole, cut from the forest ; 

 the line, of white cotton, was little less 

 than a rope in size ; and the hook was a 

 large black one, baited either with a wrig- 

 gling angleworm, a minnow, or sometimes 

 a frog's leg. 



The grass was heavy with dew and the 

 Eastern sky was reddening when my uncle 

 and I walked over the meadow and pas- 

 ture lands and the rolling, sandy road 

 which led to Cooper lake. This lake cov- 

 ered a few hundred acres, its greatest 

 width measuring about half a mile; and 

 on its surface arose a small island dotted 

 with clumps of trees and bushes. The 

 banks of the lake were almost encircled by 

 a forest. We crossed the lake in an old, 

 flat bottomed boat and the creaking of its 

 long, clumsy oars echoed and re-echoed 



weirdly through the surrounding forests. 

 When we came to Long Lake creek, which 

 discharged its pure, clear, cool waters into 

 Cooper lake, we met an irritating difficulty. 

 As the creek's banks were covered with an 

 almost impenetrable thicket, it was impos- 

 sible for us to land without dragging our 

 boat up the stream until we came to a 

 clearing. In working our way through the 

 network of bushes and vines we were often 

 struck in the face and eyes. I never be- 

 fore had seen my uncle impatient, and I 

 am fearful he used language foreign to his 

 customary speech and improper for a boy 

 to hear. Finally, however, we came to a 

 clearing, in which we left the boat. 



From the clearing to the falls of Long 

 Lake creek was about 2 miles. Above the 

 falls the stream was sluggish, but below 

 them it wound through a beautiful forest, 

 and the music of the sparkling waters 

 dancing over the boulders was a delight 

 to hear. In this part of the stream were 

 the favorite haunts of the trout. 



Along the banks great trees grew and 

 beneath them the water had washed out 

 deep recesses or pools. In those dark, deep 

 pools my uncle said the trout were. He 

 told me to fish in every deep hole, beneath 

 every log, beside the large boulders, and in 

 all places which looked favorable as a trout 

 retreat. He even kindled my imagination 

 by telling me if I fished carefully and made 

 no noise I might catch a large, cunning old 

 fellow, who lived a solitary life, although 

 I ought to be content if I caught the small- 

 er fry. 



For reasons then unknown to me, my 

 uncle fished up the stream instead of be- 

 ginning at the falls and fishing down. He 

 told me to follow him a distance up the 

 brook and to watch his method of fishing. 

 I followed, watched, and made as little 

 noise as possible, although I occasionally 

 fell among the bushes or sent something 

 splashing into the water. It seemed to me 

 that he had a trout dangling from his line 

 at almost every cast, and when I left him 

 to try my luck, he was stepping from stone 

 to stone and swinging his rod in the air. 



When my uncle was out of sight I tried 

 my hand at casting, but I made a woful 

 failure of it I could not skim the bait 

 over the water and my hook was always 

 catching on the shrubs and bushes or into 

 my pantaloons. Not a nibble, much less a 

 strike, did I receive through my efforts. 

 Determined not to give up without further 

 trials, I wandered up and down the creek, 



