35 2 



R EC RE A TIOX. 



same fish were taken to Corry. Pa., where 

 the same bass weighed 4 pounds. All the 

 difference between the rolling stone and a 

 fish story is that the latter gathers more 

 moss the farther it rolls. 



Where we get the better of the summer 

 sports is this; we can see the fish and get 

 every one of them. We don't wait for them 

 to bite ; we do the biting. The summer 

 angler has to do as the fish say. The fish 

 may say, " I see your bait. I won't bite to- 

 day, some other day.'' But when they 

 come in out of curiosity to see some of the 

 singed, streaked and speckled freaks we 

 dangle on our lines that we call decoy fish, 

 we simply move our 6 or 7 tined spear out 

 over them and they don't stand a ghost of a 

 show. If they only weigh a pound or 2 we 

 put them in a bag and sneak off the ice for 



home, or for the market. If we get a 40 

 pound fish we have our picture taken along 

 with his majesty the 'longe, and get our 

 name in the paper, which some day will be 

 handed down to posterity and be placed 

 along side of those of Nero and Richard 

 the III. We have caught 15 tons in 5 days 

 and if we can have 5 days more will take 

 out 30 tons. Are we not doing a noble 

 work? We are not sure. 



M. Harpoon. 

 Jamestown, February 23d. 



That Chautauqua spearing law is one of 

 the most infamous, short sighted and de- 

 structive measures that ever disgraced any 

 statute book and the legislature will never 

 purge itself of contempt in the eyes of the 

 people until it repeals it. — Editor. 



A DAY OX THE BEACH. 



G. W. BEATTY, M.D. 



Returning one dreary evening recently 

 from a hard day's professional work, I 

 stretched myself in my great easy chair — 

 one which had belonged to the father of 

 Aaron Burr — placed my feet on the fender, 

 before a glowing fire, leaned my head back 

 upon its cushion, and resigned myself to 

 that luxury of content which only comes to 

 a tired man in his home. 



Glancing lazily round the room I slowly 

 scanned the various trophies with which the 

 walls of my bachelor den are garnished. 

 (Yes. I am a bachelor.) 



Pistols from 17 — ; bowie knives of '49; 

 haversacks used in the Mexican War; 

 sabers of '61; a flag from Cuba: hunting 

 scenes; pictures of trout brooks; a long- 

 istemmed German pipe, with my foils — relics 

 of college days — Indian trophies, and last, 

 my fishing outfit and guns. 



Taking down my bait box, intending to 

 tie a few flies. I chanced upon a tiny feather 

 from the breast of a snipe. It had been 

 saved to make a midge-wing. The sight of 

 the little feather recalled the occasion 

 which brought it into my possession, and I 

 turned to the gun which knocked it down. 

 Removing this from its case I examined it 

 carefully, to see if it were still in good con- 

 dition, tested the locks, looked through the 

 barrels, took off the forestock, the barrels, 

 replaced them, sighted at the various ob- 

 jects in the room to try my nerve and 

 judgment, and at last sat down with my 

 gun across my knees, as I should do in the 

 blind, and fell to ruminating on the past. 

 Out of it all came specially one delicious 

 day, with charming vividness. The room 



expanded, the fire faded, the scene changed 

 — and this is what I saw. 



It was a September morning, crisp and 

 clear. My brother, an admirable camping 

 chum, and an excellent shot, called me from 

 my slumbers to a steaming cup of coffee, 

 and soon we were on the way to our hunt- 

 ing ground, in a sneak-box, on a 4 mile 

 rowing job. I managed the oars, and 'ere 

 it was light enough to shoot we had reached 

 the end of the journey. 



Securing our boat we hurried to the blind, 

 and set our decoys. I paused to gather a 

 few locks of hay from a convenient cock, 

 and my brother went on to the blind. While 

 I was busy 2 sharp reports told me that the 

 day's work had begun, and hurrying to the 

 firing line I found my brother gathering 

 up 2 willets which he had brought down. 



It fell to me to set the decoys, some 40 in 

 all — golden plovers. Just as I was com- 

 pleting this task a shout. '* Mark East," 

 warned me to drop the job and snatch the 

 gun. I fire 2 shots, my brother 2; I call 

 and they wheel, returning to where the 

 wounded are fluttering. We each get in 

 a cross fire and I pick up 30 gray backs, 

 and hasten to the blind. 



I had barely reached it when a bunch of 

 yellow-shanks came in and dropped among 

 the decoys. Waiting until they bunched, 

 we rose and fired just as they flew, my 

 companion getting 4 with his first and one 

 with his second barrel, I 3 with my first and 

 one with my second. 



Presently the sun rose bright and warm, 

 and by 9 o'clock the flight ceased. During 

 the quiet interval I heard 4 rapidly repeated 



