4 1 6 



RECREATION 



quail had her nest and the rabbits and foxes 

 hid, and where the remote copse in the 

 swamp held its own secret of lady's-slipper 

 orchid blooms. 



Pearl, soon to bear suffering and face 

 ordeals with almost superhuman forti- 

 tude, while her spirit shone "through a 

 hundred storms of iron and ice ! " Only six- 

 teen now, but scarred with bitterest losses. 

 How she had plead by letter for "just one 

 week" of renewal of the old fishing jaunts 

 and rocking among the tossing whitecaps. 

 And now her face was not the happy one of 

 small Pearl, but pinched and drawn because 

 of many months of illness in hospitals. 

 Sportsmen meet these cottage tragedies in 

 the humblest cabins; the world is full of 

 them and their griefs. 



At five the next morning there is a rap 

 on my door: 



"Git up, lazy. Got sum more wil' stror- 

 berries fur ye. An' pap 's ketched sum 

 traout frum ther run back o' ther barn. 

 Hurry, naow! Coffee an' fried fish in ten 

 minnits." 



The sportsman may choose between a 

 room in this charming little "hotel" right 



on the shore of Big Platte Lake (six miles 

 long and two miles wide) and one of several 

 tents pitched a few rods away. He will 

 need a mosquito net, made of cheesecloth. 



Mention is not made of the crazy state 

 into which we were plunged at sight of a 

 mascalonge weighing twenty-two pounds 

 at the tent of Jack the Fisher and his Indian 

 chum down the shore, nor of the glorious 

 view of the lake. Nor of that breakfast. 



This forest maiden is not so charming 

 as her small self was. She has grown shy 

 and self-conscious, and minces in her walk 

 as she steps into the rowboat. We are off 1 

 But whither ? An embarrassment of angling 

 possibilities and riches before us; and we 

 must choose! 



To the northeast a mile away, with good 

 trolling all the way, Platte River empties 

 into the lake. It is a trout-stream too deep 

 to wade, but affords excellent fishing from 

 a boat. We go a mile up this stream, passing 

 clumps of tenderest watercresses a foot high, 

 rows on rows of wild roses, and miry patches 

 full of logs with mud-turtles and minks on 

 them. Then we turn to the left into the 

 "Dead Stream" — a sluggish watercourse 

 with almost no current, but where one or 



THE OUTLET OF BIG PLATTE LAKE 



