A DAY ON LAKE OWEN. 
C. C. HASKINS. 
Lake Owen is between Cable and Drum- 
mond, Wisconsin, and is a signal station 
on the C., St. P.. M. & O. railway. The 
lake is 2 minutes’ walk from the station, 
and directly across it is the Eagle Knob 
hotel. On the beach there is always a 
boat, so if there happens to be no oarsman 
about, the way is open to do your own 
ferrying. 
I was fortunate, for when the little craft 
left the shore, headed for Otter slough, Jim 
Stokes, landlord, companion and_ guide, 
was at the oars. It was a beautiful June 
morning following a protracted rain. The 
loons had ceased their laughing chorus, 
and in softer notes were congratulating 
each other on the fine weather. The woods 
were alive with songsters, each striving to 
outdo the others in melody. Sitting well 
up on a dried and barkless pine a solitary 
crow cawed warningly, and a panther, or 
some other pariah of the cat family, ut- 
tered its hateful yell, probably to frighten 
some timid creature into betraying itself 
by moving in its hiding place. A _ great, 
gaunt timber wolf set up its howl, by way 
of bass to the concert. 
Otter slough is a long bay at the South- 
ern extremity of the lake. Its narrow en- 
trance, a few yards long, is shallow and 
clear of weeds and grass; farther into the 
slough the water, still shallow, widens into 
a bay, and is excellent ground for muska- 
longe, because of the weedy nature of the 
bottom. As we passed this ground Stokes 
said that by the time we had fished the 
bass ground there would be wind enough 
to ruffle the shallow water, and then we 
could try for a musky. 
Jim had much to do between rowing and 
berating me in a good natured way for 
making an occasional foul cast. All the 
same, I landed bass enough that day to 
satisfy any but a fish hog, and we returned 
down the slough about noon. 
Jim’s prediction was correct. The wind 
did blow a trifle, and the musky was there. 
He struck, and I struck, and Jim pulled 
for deep water. The first move of the vic- 
tim was to try to release himself by tang- 
ling up in the weeds. A taut line prevented 
that, and Jim pulled, down through that 
shallow water. As the boat spun, the fish 
headed for the narrows. Though Jim 
pulled all he knew how, Musky would have 
beaten him but for the reel, which kept 
taking up the slack. He was abreast of the 
boat, not 10 yards away, something like a 
quarter of a mile, and we finally brought 
him aboard just at the landing. 
= 
425 
Putting him and our bass in the ice 
house, we passed down the West shore of 
the peninsula, toward another favorite bass 
ground. On the way we came suddenly in 
sight of a loon, which set up an unusual 
racket, and swam near our little craft. 
“Oh, ho!” said Jim, “that bird has a nest 
near here, and we must find it. They al- 
ways nest on a bog, and I think I know 
just where it is.” 
A little searching discovered the nest, 
with one unhatched egg and the broken 
shell of the other. We heard a faint “peep, 
peep,” and traced it to the egg. The little 
fellow had broken a hole in the shell about 
the size of one’s thumb nail, and was cry- 
ing lustily for release. 
After satisfying our curiosity, we re- 
turned to deeper water, and there saw the 
mother loon, with the recently hatched baby 
on her back. Following her closely, she 
became alarmed, dropped the baby loon 
into the lake and swam away. It was 
amusing to see the little one, only a few 
hours old, try to dive. The head and neck 
would go under well enough, but despite 
the kicking of those funny little paddles, 
the body, like Banquo’s ghost, would not 
down. When it reached the mother, the 
cooing of the parent reminded us of the 
notes of the turtle dove. 
Rounding a point of land, we came si- 
lently on a redhead duck with her little 
family of 10, quite recently out of the shell. 
A signal from the mother, and they all 
half paddled, half flew to the shore, while 
she flew away. They huddled under a bush 
within 20 feet of us, and she flew back and 
forth, uttering each time she passed a word 
of caution. At last as she flew by them 
she changed her note, and the little ones, 
as by a single impulse, half ran, half swam, 
to where she settled down among them. 
Resting a moment, she said something more 
and all started for the opposite shore, the 
mother adopting the same speed as the 
young. The ducklings were only 2 or 3 
days out of the shell, yet they thoroughly 
understood the language of their mother. 
Selecting a shady, sloping bank, we 
pulled up the boat where the water was 
hardly a foot deep, and had but just stepped 
out of it when a school of 9 black bass 
came in, evidently having been driven 
away from the shoal by our approach. 
I cast among them, but no motion did 
they make, except to allow the hook to be 
drawn past them. I tried several baits, but 
all to no purpose, while I had almost to 
fight to keep away the rock bass. The, 
