WHEN THE LINES RUN FREE 



Being short stories of lake and stream, of a fish that got away and 



one that didn't and of a big Dolly Varden that 



had to be sat upon 



" TO, HIM WHO WAITS " 



BY BURLEY D'PERE. 



j>]EB and I had been in the 

 Siwash country for sev- 

 eral weeks fishing. We 

 had had practically no 

 luck at all, for not a trout 

 was hooked, although 

 we had traversed every 

 branch of the Snohomish 

 River. All the nimrods 

 of the village came in day 

 after day with strings of 

 beauties that made our 

 hearts ache and sent us to bed at night 

 with a great desire and longing to show 

 them that we could do a turn or two in 

 that line. 



We fished in the same holes, used the 

 same kind of bait, hooks, lines and rods 

 as the more fortunate fisherman did, but 

 always with the same result. We fished 

 when the tide ebbed, flowed and was on 

 a stand, yet not a trout came our way. 

 Evening always found us in a disgusted 

 frame of mind, for all we caught was 

 a dozen or so bullheads and a few 

 suckers. 



Naturally we were "joshed" a great 

 deal. Much to the enjoyment of 

 the daily loungers, every evening as we 

 entered the hotel, the same question 

 was put to us, — "What luck to-day, 

 boys, bullheads, suckers or trout?" 

 But our only retort was, — "It comes to 

 him who waits." So we determined to 

 open their eyes by catching a mess that 

 would show up any brought into the 

 village during the season, or admit that 

 fishing was not one of our strong 

 points. 



Thus matters stood when one morn- 



ing, bright and early, we shouldered 

 our tackle, took a can of salmon eggs 

 for bait, some lunch and hit the trail 

 leading to Ouil Cedar Creek, a tidal 

 branch of the Snohomish, running 

 through an Indian Reservation adjoin- 

 ing the village. 



This creek was considered one of the 

 most frequented haunts of salmon trout, 

 and although we had visited it several 

 times, we had never been fortunate 

 enough to land a member of the tribe 

 fit for food. Of course we were feeling 

 very jubilant, as all fishermen do when 

 their thoughts are filled with dreams of 

 a big catch. Yet deep down in our hearts 

 lurked the fear of the "water haul," 

 for we had made it so often that it al- 

 most seemed to be the natural result of 

 our day's outing. 



Arriving at the creek we followed a 

 narrow trail and soon found a spot, 

 which any fisherman could tell at a 

 glance, would be the haunt of trout, 

 both large and small. A massive cedar, 

 torn from its roots years before by a 

 storm, lay half way across the creek and 

 made a splendid perch from which to cast. 

 The banks of the stream were lined with 

 underbrush and shrubs which reached 

 to the very water's edge. The over- 

 hanging branches of the firs and cedars 

 cast their shadows almost across to the 

 opposite bank. It was as beautiful a 

 spot as one could find for fishing. The 

 deep silence was undisturbed except for 

 the occasional chirp of a chip-munk or 

 the war-cry of a hawk. 



We were not many minutes baiting, 

 and ere long were casting among the 

 shadows for any unwary trout which 

 might be lurking in the shadows. The 

 tide was flooding, a time when trout 



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