THE JUDGE AND I. 



MENOQUET. 



There are myriads of small lakes and in- 

 numerable small streams in the Northern 

 and Eastern part of Indiana, which are as 

 yet comparatively unknown to sportsmen. 

 These lakes and their connecting water- 

 ways, bordered and shaded by tall trees and 

 tangled thickets, and covering an immense 

 tract of country, form a paradise for the 

 angler which would have delighted the 

 soul of Izaak Walton. 



Here he could have wandered to his 

 heart's content ; here he could have rev- 

 eled in pursuit, not of roach, dace and 

 chubb, but of a far nobler and more wary 

 warrior of the troubled waters, the black 

 bass. One familiar with the locality can 

 readily imagine with what pleasure Izaak 

 would have threaded his way, rod in hand, 

 beneath the glorious canopy of leaves, not- 

 ing the long sun arrows lighting the crystal 

 depths, the sunken log or overhanging al- 

 der. What tales he would recount in his 

 quaint, sweet way, to some boon compan- 

 ion, of battles won by skill and patience. 



The upper Tippecanoe, the principal 

 stream of this region, is little frequented 

 by sportsmen, other than he of the bent 

 pin and bare feet, yet here can be had a 

 day's bass fishing that will satisfy any rea- 

 sonable man. Even the farmer who waters 

 his cattle at its brink seems only to know 

 it from the bend above to the one below. 



The Tippecanoe is a crooked stream, 

 spring fed and cool and perfectly clear. It 

 flows through some of the richest farming 

 lands of the State. 



In its tangled thickets can be had fine 

 woodcock shooting in season. Many wild 

 ducks breed each year among the bayous 

 and lakes of the upper river. Its waters are 

 alive with many varieties of food fishes, 

 and to the skillful angler the reward is cer- 

 tain. 



At 3.30 on a fine morning, late in last 



erect carriage is ample testimony that 60 

 years of fishing and hunting is good for the 

 health. He has taken fish and game in the 

 most favored localities of the United States, 

 but still has a warm place in his heart for 

 the Tippecanoe. 



We found the driver awaiting us at the 

 appointed place, with the boat ready loaded, 

 and climbed in for our 3 miles' journey to 

 the river. We were after black bass, that 

 picaroon of the fresh water, well known 

 as a fighter of the first order. When he 

 takes the fly he is dead earnest, and, if of 

 good size, one many confidently expect a 

 battle that will fully test both skill and 

 tackle. 



After dismissing the driver and launch- 

 ing our boat, we ate breakfast with appe- 

 tites born of the keen air and anticipations 

 of the sport to come. The meal over, ham- 

 per repacked and rods set up, we started up 

 stream. Just after we passed under the 

 wagon bridge, the Judge made 2 casts and 

 each time landed a bass of a pound weight. 

 Feeling that our day was well begun, we 

 rowed up stream a quarter of a mile or 

 more, casting into every likely place, but 

 with no results. Then through a tangle of 

 lily pads, fallen logs and stumps of trees 

 killed by the back water from the dam 

 below. It was a nasty bit in which to 

 navigate even so small a craft, but we 

 finally arrived at the clear water, 100 yards 

 above, with the railroad bridge just in 

 sight around the bend. Here the Judge 

 discovered that his rod was missing. He 

 had put it down to assist in forcing the 

 boat through the lily pads, and it had qui- 

 etly gone overboard. Our strongest ad- 

 jectives failed to bring it back to us, so we 

 went and got it. 



Just below the bridge is a great heap of 

 sunken logs with plenty of deep water un- 

 derneath, shaded by the interlacing branch- 



September, I arose, donned my corduroys, es of elms above. It is a famous place for 



took my rod, tackle and lunch bag, and 

 slipped quietly out of the house and over 

 to the Judge's across the way. The weather 

 promised to be all we could desire, cloud- 

 less and with a suspicion of frost in the 



bass and many a one has fought his last 

 fight there. While I held fast to a pier, 

 the Judge made a beautiful cast and 

 dropped his fly just where he wanted it, as 

 the result proved. There was the quick 



air. It was one of those mornings when flap of a broad tail, a gleam of gold, a 

 there is_ a little ice on the edges of the sudden bending of the little rod and a wild 



river; just cool enough to make the 

 blood tingle and to make one feel in every 

 fiber that life is a glorious privilege in this 

 old world of ours. 

 The Judge is a gentleman and a thor- 



leap into' the air, followed by a great splash 

 and a sullen and deep plunge to the bot- 

 tom. After sulking for a time, the fish 

 suddenly broached again and fought fierce- 

 ly, trying to get under the logs. Balked 



ough sportsman who, as he expresses it, in the attempt, he rushed back and forth 



practices law when he can't go fishing." across the stream, the taut line cutting 



I hough he confesses to 70 years, his firm, concentric designs on the water. Again 



357 



