FISH AND FISHING. 



2S9 



water. There is no fun in hooking an 

 under sized trout and throwing him out on 

 the shore, even if you do put him back. If 

 a trout is any considerable size he will give 

 a man good sport for 10 or 15 minutes. If 

 he be a fingerling then it is all right to 

 take him off the hook and set him free in 

 his native element as quickly as possible. 

 You and your friends were evidently not 

 fishing for sport, but for a record. 



You say you threw back all under 6 or 8 

 inches. You do not say what proportion of 

 the fish that included. It may mean that 

 you threw back half a dozen.. It mav mean 

 that you threw back 200, but judging from 

 your statement that you and your friends 

 each took a trout every 3 minutes, everv de- 

 cent man will infer that you are the kind 

 of men who keep all the fish they get and 

 that you took the majority of them home 

 with you. If you wish to be classed as a 

 true sportsman, you should have told just 

 how many you threw back and iust how 

 many you killed, but the inference is vou 

 were ashamed to tell the truth. That is a 

 good sign as far as it goes. It leads me to 

 hope you may soon learn to enjoy an hour 

 or 2 of decent fishing in a day and if vou 

 get enough in that time to quit, and not to 

 keep on yanking fish out just to be able to 

 tell that you caught more than someone 

 else did. There are other ways in which 

 gentlemen can enjoy themselves in the 

 woods than by running up big scores. — 

 Editor. 



AFTER BASS IN THE WABASH. 



One bright morning in October father 

 and I went to Bonewitt's eddy, about 11 

 miles from home, for bass. Father's tackle 

 consisted of an 8-ounce bamboo rod, 100 

 feet of braided silk line, an automatic reel, 

 a 6-foot minnow net and a minnow bucket 

 which he had made himself. I had an 11- 

 foot cane rod with 30 feet of common line. 

 This outfit we put in the wagon, with our 

 box of provisions and plenty of bedding, 

 and about 2 o'clock in the afternoon we 

 started. At Big eddy we struck camp, just 

 at sundown. The next morning we ate an 

 early breakfast and were at the river, ready 

 for business, by daylight. Father put on a 

 minnow,_ cast it out and laid his rod on 

 some willows, while he should help me 

 untangle my line,. He had scarcely turned 

 around when his reel went ziss — ziss — ziss ! 

 and his line ran out about 15 feet a second. 

 He caught up his rod and the fish bent it 

 nearly double. Father finally landed him, 

 a 3-pound black bass. My first catch was 

 a pound bass, which rose the instant the 

 minnow struck the water. They bit well 

 until about 9 o'clock. 



After dinner we started down the long 

 eddy, wading out to the middle of the 

 river, We did not get a bite until about 



3 o'clock, when we were just at the end 

 of the eddy. I got a strike, but it happened 

 to be a shad, the largest one I ever saw. 



Then father waded out to the bank and 

 said he would climb a tree to see if there 

 were any bass below us. After he got up 

 the tree he looked about 30 yards below 

 me and said he saw 25 or more bass, all 

 in a bunch. 1 waded down within 25 feet 

 of them and father told me where to cast. 

 My minnow had no more than hit the 

 water when a big bass grabbed it and came 

 near jerking the rod out of my hands. By 

 that time father had fallen out of the tree 

 and got hold of his rod. He cast right into 

 the bunch and got a good run, but missed 

 it. While he was reeling in his line an- 

 other fish grabbed his minnow and he 

 missed that one also. He kept on until he 

 had missed 5. Then he got discouraged, 

 emptied his minnows out and we quit, for 

 we had 17 bass and one shad, which we 

 called a good day's catch. 



Ancil Cook, Warren, Ind. 



HOW THE PIKE CAUGHT OLD JOE. 



Old Joe was what might be called a 

 river rat. He had worked as a boy at 

 logging and rafting, and later as river 

 pilot and as guide through the dense for- 

 est that bordered on the St. Lawrence 

 river. He was, of course, an angler of 

 much experience. He lived a sort of a her- 

 mit life in a shanty on the outskirts of 

 the town and near our farm. It used to 

 be the height of our youthful ambition to 

 be near old Joe. He would entertain us 

 for hours with tales of his experiences 

 on the river. He passed the winters trap- 

 ping, and the summers fishing and doing 

 odd jobs. If one of us boys could go 

 fishing with him we were on the summit 

 of glory. Once father assigned me a num- 

 ber of rows of weeds to pull and told me 

 when I had finished I might go fishing. I 

 finished my work, dug my bait and went 

 down to get Joe's permission to go with 

 him the next day. After considering a 

 while he said I might go if I would keep 

 still in the boat. Being relieved of all 

 anxiety, dad's overcoat would not have 

 made a vest large enough for me. On 

 the way home it seemed as if I was walk- 

 ing on air. 



After dreaming of boats, big fish, lines, 

 etc., all night we made an early start. 

 Trolling up the river, catching occasion- 

 ally a small bass or pike, we finally an- 

 chored at a bend in the river called Marble 

 ledge and noted for its large pike. I 

 was catching perch, rock bass, sunfish, 

 etc., when suddenly Joe exclaimed, 



"I've got a strike and he's a big one." 



In his eagerness to land the fish he 

 swung it clear of the water and in some 

 way one of the hooks caught Joe in the 



