WHEN THE LINES RUN FREE 



363 



chase, had captured a vicious maniac, 

 what did I care? My most dangerous 

 trait was that of jumping in the river 

 and giving a disconnected harangue 

 about a big fish. 



I have caught many trout since that, 

 my first experience, and some that out- 

 classed that fish in point of size, but 

 the feeling I experienced when I made 

 my first catch has never been dupli- 

 cated in point of genuine pleasure and 

 nerve thrilling excitement. 



A CANANDAIGUA WHOPPER 



BY LOUIS F. DRAKE. 



While camping at Push Point, on 

 beautiful Canandaigua Lake, last sum- 

 mer, there occurred one of the most 

 singular fishing incidents that I ever 

 saw. It was in July and the wind was 

 in the South. When the wind blows 

 from that direction — thank goodness, it 

 doesn't very often — the mosquitoes are 

 wafted from the big swamp at the in- 

 let and make life interesting for the 

 campers for miles along the lake. It 

 was during one of these hot summer 

 days that I pulled down from the 

 "Eastnor" cottage, where some of our 

 party were staying. On arriving at the 

 camp I found all hands trying to get 

 a little sleep, some in hammocks and 

 others in the shade on the beach, but the 

 winged pest with the hand-organ on 

 his back wouldn't have it that way. 

 As I approached the shore I could see 

 arms flying and hear Sunday-school 

 words coming from all sides. 



"Say, boys," said Charlie, "there's no 

 use trying; I can't sleep with all this 

 buzzing going on around me. Let's go 

 iishing; they won't bite so hard out 

 there." 



"Sure," growled the "Kid." "That's 

 a good idea, and we can go down to 

 Vine Valley and get some mosquito 

 netting and some grub, too." 



"Always wanting to eat, eh, Kid?" 

 said Dick. 



"Guess you would," returned the 

 Kid, "if you didn't sleep more than I 

 did last night !" 



1 Off they went. Kid and Charlie were 

 the fishermen of the party, the rest be- 

 ing willing to sail, swim or do nothing, 

 but always ready to eat. After the 

 fishermen had been gone some time, and 

 nearly out of sight, I rigged up the 

 sails on the Hattie and thought I 

 would see what luck they were having. 

 Reader, do you know of anything that 

 beats sailing ? I don't ; that's why I 

 don't catch more fish. 



On this particular day the air, sun, 

 wind and water were especially fine, 

 and as I settled back and heard the 

 water gurgle along the sides of the lit- 

 tle craft and watched the sails pulling 

 like "Sogers," I thought, "Oh, ye fish- 

 ers ! If you but knew the beauties of 

 sailing as compared with fishing!" I 

 presume they thought as they saw me 

 coming, "Oh, ye sailor ! If you but 

 knew the delights of fishing!" But the 

 fact of it is, they never saw me coming 

 at all, so intent were they on pounding 

 the bottom of the lake with a pound of 

 lead. As I neared them I saw two 

 other fishing boats acting in a singular 

 manner. They were rowing around in 

 a large circle, with their lines out. 1 

 heard the Kid call out to them, "What's 

 the matter, Scott?" 



"Lost a big one," came back the re- 

 ply, "and he took six leaders and the 

 sinker, and we are trying to hook 

 them." 



For the benefit of those not familiar 

 with the "Seth Green" trout rig, I will 

 say that the sinker is fastened to the 

 extreme end of the line, while about 

 12 or 15 feet. above is a leader about 

 15 feet long, and the same distance 

 above that is another, and so on until 

 four, five or six leaders are attached, 

 as suits the fancy of the angler. 



The "Kid," who was rowing, called 

 out, "We will row between you and 

 see if we can get hold of him." And, 

 sure enough, as their boat was about 

 in line, Charlie said, "Hold up, Kid; 

 I've caught the bottom." 



He certainly was fast to something, 

 but that "something" was quite an ani- 

 mated article, as Charlie soon found 



