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BASS-FISHING IN WISCONSIN 47 
frantic energy and they fought long and well, 
trusting not all in sheer strength of fin and 
tail, but resorting to every strategy known 
to fish. They sought refuge beneath every 
stone.and sunken tree immediately after the 
first few splendid jumps. The lily-pads and 
water-plants were the deadliest enemies to 
our sport, and once the bass made «his 
favorite covert in the strong stalks, the line 
was hopelessly tangled and the fish tore the 
hook from his mouth. 
My steel bait rod was the only one to 
come out of the woods as good as when it 
wentin. Asplit bamboo became damp with 
continual fishing and slivered. A green- 
heart bait tip was slivered on a huge bass 
which took a twist around the anchor rope. 
A lancewood broke at the ferrule, butting a 
twenty-pound ’longe. In justice to the 
modern school of bait-casters, however, I 
must say that there was none in our party 
who was an expert bait-caster. Perhaps a 
past master with the short rod might have 
shown us that, with skillful casting, artificial 
minnows were as successful lures as the live 
ones we used. As for myself, my home is in 
New York State, near to good trout waters, 
and I have fished too long with the reel 
below the hand to ever hope to master the 
short rod and the free reel. 
The first day among the bass we met a 
~ disgraceful defeat, considering the fish we 
hooked, notwithstanding there were veteran 
anglers among us, for we were handicapped 
by lack of a landing-net or a gaff, and it was 
almost impossible to get the tired fish near 
enough to the boat to slip two fingers into 
their gills. That night until a late hour the 
sound of hammer and cold chisel on metal 
could be heard, and the next morning a 
crude but serviceable gaff hung on the tent 
pole. Then things looked different. 
We caught a great many fish, even more 
than we could possibly eat, but these we 
turned loose immediately after tiring. It 
was seldom that we hooked a bass that 
would weigh less than a pound, while the 
largest bass that fell to our lot was a ten- 
pounder, a big-mouth caught just about 
dark, after a fine day’s sport. The bait «vas 
gone and we had stopped fishing for the day, 
but two large dead ‘‘shiners”’ lay belly up 
in the bait-pail, They were fully eight 
inches in length. The old flat-bottom scow, 
belonging to a Norwegian farmer, was moy- 
ing slowly along near the timbered shore. 
The waters lay black with approaching 
night, the waves gone to rest with the even- 
ing hush which had silenced the noisy insect 
and bird life. Without knowing why I did 
it, I took one of the two minnows and, 
fastening my hook through the head, threw 
it out of the boat to trail. I did not expect a 
bite on so large a bait, but there was no 
other and I was reluctant to give up the 
sport. 
“Whir-r-r-r-r,” went the automatic. 
‘Whoa, stop the boat,” I exclaimed, ‘I’m 
fast on something!”’ 
As I grasped the rod and turned around, 
the line was cutting a streak for deep water 
and I knew a fish had struck the twisting 
bait. I waited a little, until I thought it safe 
to strike, then a slight yank on the line 
fastened the hook and brought a monster 
bass at least three feet out of the quiet water. 
An instant he shook himself, until the half- 
rotten fish flew from his jaws; then he fell 
with a heavy splash. Three times the fish 
leaped in indescribable anger. The fight 
was in clear, deep water, and I kept the 
fish’s head high and away from the bottom. 
The tackle was true and well tried. The 
fish’s rushes and lightning-like speed soon 
tired and I brought him close for the gaff. 
Ten pounds that bass weighed in camp that 
evening—fullya pound and a-half more than 
any other bass caught that trip. 
It was in the middle of September when 
we broke camp for the long drive to the 
nearest railroad station. The first flights of 
ducks were already splashing into the waters 
of the lakes early in the morning and at 
dusk. Their noisy quackings called us 
from our beds at daybreak the last day, as 
these were the advance guard, the non- 
divers, and they fed near the shores. Many 
a time I have turned my back upon the 
wilderness and faced the cities again, but 
never with such reluctance, such a lost, 
lonesome feeling about the heart, such a 
feeling of leaving behind all that I held dear, 
as the time I looked the last upon the crystal 
waters, and each tiny wave nodded a last 
farewell, as we drove away from the lake 
region of upper Wisconsin. 
