THE AMERICAN SPORTSMAN'S JOURNAL. 



or Doll an a Year. 

 C eat* a Cony. 



NEW YORK, THURSDAY, AUGUST 1 6, 1877- 



t Volume 9.-No. 2. 

 INo. Ill Fallen St., N. T. 



A TROUTING REMINISCENCE. 



YOUR'E right ; I'll go And It at once ; 

 It needs more repairs, I'll be bound, 

 For Jack, the old good-hearted dance, 



Left hardly a part of it sound. 

 Besides, it's the time of the year 



When tackle should all be brought out, 

 For April will shortly be here, 

 And then for the woods and the trout. 



This rod is the one Jack abused, 



And this is the basket and Hue ; 

 I wish I had flatly refused 



To lend him a flshhook of mine ! 

 *' A nice-looking rig," do you say ? 



I think so myself ; that split, pole 

 Cost flfty-flve dollars last May— 



Who now would.give ten for the whole ? 



He'd fished some at Long Bridge for smelt, 



Had been to a clani-bake or so, 

 And with such experience felt 



He knew all a fisher should know. 

 Please hand me that fly-book. Yes, Jack 



Had plenty of pluck from the start ; 

 And yet, when the party turned back, 



He hadn't commenced in the art. 



Yon ought to have seen his first trout- 

 Scarce three inches long, so they said— 



Which taxed all his strength to pull out 

 And hang up, right over his head, 



Some twenty feet skyward ; the tree 

 Avenging his wanton attack 



By keeping, as safe as could he, 

 This first trouting trophy for Jack ! 



Please aid me a moment. A splice 



Is not just the thing in a tip ; 

 But one can't afford to be nice 



While there's such a scarceness of scrip. 

 Turn easy at first, till the thread 



Has strengthened the fracture a bit ; 

 That's splendid— now wind right ahead 



Until we haye covered the split. 



I think that will do. Jack allowed 



The feat he accomplished was fine, 

 And stumped every man in the crowd 



To do such a trick with a iine ; 

 But no one was anxious to try. 



My choice taper line by the feat 

 •Was rained forever, well.nigh. 



Why, really, this looks rather neat. 



I told him such snatching at trout 



Would never do, if he should hook 

 A big one— and there is no doubt 



They grew pretty la-ge in this brook. 

 But he must be patient, and drown 



His fish ere he brought him to land. 

 He said that he " savvied " —the clown— i 



And looked very knowing and bland. 



I found him soon after, down stream, 



Astride of a log, with his eyes 

 On something of in'trest supreme, 



As though they were bent on a prize. 

 He said he was " drowning a whale, 



Which onght to be dead a3 can be— 

 He hasn't the game of a snail— 



I think I will hoist him and see." 



He "hoisted," and found that his hook 



Was caught in some water-logged chunks 

 Of wood, and the fellow's blank look 



Had no more of mirth than a monk's]! 

 He rallied, however, quite gay, 



Declaring it only one joke 

 Of many he'd played me that day, 



And'langhedtill I thought he would choke. 



His luck being " wretched with bait," 



And thinking to "throw them a fly," 

 He'cudgeled his ponderous pate 



To strike a position whereby 

 A cast could be made in a pool 



Which looked very trouty and nice, 

 Andlchose for the venture— the fool— 



A bowlder a3 smooth as new ice. 



He threw, and the bowlder threw Jack 



Bight head-over-heels in the hole ; 

 And O, what an ominous crack '. 



Came forth from my elegant pole I 

 As mad as I was I contrived 



To ask him as soon as he rose, 

 If really he meant, when he dived, 



Another smart "joke " to^expose 



This joint is :he one Jack supplied 



In place of the splintered-up length ; 

 And though without doubt he has tried, 



It lacks both in lightness and strength. 

 But naught he could do would make good 



The loss which my temper sustained 

 That day ; hut to be understood 



That part must be further explained : 



He stuck to the fish-rod throughout, 



And when he emerged with a flop, 

 Great Izaak I a three-poundw trout 



Was spinning his reel like a top ! 

 Of course, after fool's luck like that 



He landed the whopper all right, 

 Nor eared for the Iosb of his hat, 



Which floated away out of sight. 



And then he just let himself out, 

 And bragged to his heart's full content 



Of how he had oaught the big trout 

 By science I What need of comment ? 



One thing has been fixed in my mind, 



When I go a-flshing for trout, 

 Green fishermen all s'ay behind, 



Or travel a different 1 oute 1 

 > ■ *>• 



M. A. KlNGSrORD. 



For Forest and Stream and Bod and Gun. 



fp0t[ting ^n^idtnin in 

 mum. 



\Qnn%* 



WOODCOCK occasionally lie very close ; I don't think, 

 however, the following instance of obstinate refusal 

 on the part of a long-bill to fly out and get peppered can 

 easily be matched. "Woodcock shooting in close cover is, I 

 think, the cream of shot-gun sporting, requiring the acme of 

 readiness and accuracy on the part of the sportsman, and af- 

 fording the quarry the utmost possible allowance of law. 

 Very different is the case, however, when the woodcock is 

 started from low brushwood, and obliged to seek refuge by 

 flying off in the open. Like an owl in the daylight, he hardly 

 seems to know where he is going, and falls the easiest of pos- 

 sible victims even to the least practiced gunner. 



I was quartered once in the wilds of Connemora during the 

 winter season. Salmon fishing, the king of western sports, 

 did not commence until the spring, and grouse and partridge 

 shooting were over. 



There was littl* to be done but to pot snipe among the bogs, 

 and I generally spent an hour or two at that amusement every 

 day. I did not care about having my dogs come to the con- 

 clusion that a jack snipe was of more importance than a pack 

 of grouse or a covey of partridges, and for that reason used 

 generally to leave them at home. 



Sometimes I took a "gossoon" with me to carry the birds — 

 oftener being, at that time, of a musing and solitude-loving 

 temperament, I used to go entirely unattended. On one of 

 these occasions, after slaughtering as many snipe as I chose to 

 carry in my bag, I remembered that I had heard Tim Lyden 

 — my head boatman and sporting factotum in chief — assert 

 that morning that, while out the night before trapping badgers, 

 he had seen the woodcock landing from the sea on the side of 

 CarrowbegHill. 



I was, of course, aware that the woodcock did thus land in 

 the night-time on the hillside, and afterward scatter them- 

 selves through the more thickly wooded inland country, but I 

 did not think that, even on a moonlight night, the sharpest 

 watcher would be likely to see them in the act. 



Partly to test the truth of Lyden's story, partly because I 

 had nothing better to do, I climbed up the sides of Carrowbeg 

 and began beating the low and widely separated bushes 

 which flecked the hillside about the place where the cock were 

 said to have alighted. Sure enough, from the very first I 

 kicked, out flew a woodcock. He took me by surprise, and had 

 sailed down the hillside, out of reach of the light shot I had in 

 my gun, before I could draw a bead on him. I distinctly saw 

 Mm, however, alight in a small isolated bit of bush, and I de- 

 termined to go and tumble him over, chiefly to see what con- 

 dition he was in after his flight from the Norway coast. 

 Down I went, keeping my eye on the bit of bush, and soon 

 got close up to it. I gave a sharp "hist" to start the bird, fol- 

 lowed by a "hit cock! cock!" and other ejaculatiousintended 

 to have a startling effect. All in vain. At last I went right 

 up to the bush, and began lacking at it and walking around it. 



It was little more than eight or nine feet across in any direc- 

 tion, and did not rise anywhere to a height of four feet. All 

 the noise I could make with my voice, seconded by the crash 

 ing of heavy shooting boots against the lower branches, failed 

 to have any effect, and, after trying to peer into the dark re 

 cesses of the brush-wood, I came to the conclusion that, in 

 spite of the evidence of my eyesight, Mr. Woodcock must 

 have flown away and taken refuge elsewhere. I threw my- 

 self down to rest after my climb and to munch some devilled 

 biscuits I had with me. Having washed said biscuits down 

 with a mouthful of sherry from a pocket flask, I wa3 about to 

 enjoy what they call in the West " a shaugh of the pipe," 

 when — the instant I struck the Vesuvian — out bounced my 

 friend, the woodcock, almost from under my no3e, taking 

 care this time to fly to a safe distance before he again secreted 

 himself. Whether it was that the explssion of the match wag 

 too much for his nerves, or that he had observed that, with 

 commendable caution, I had removed the cartridges from my 

 gun before laying it down, I cannot say ; at all events, h 

 "went" quite easily, after having, a few minutes before, re- 

 sisted every effort I could think of to make him start. Wha 

 his feelings were while I was dancing like a red Indian around 

 his hiding place on one foot and kicking at him with the 

 other, remains locked in his own bosom ; I only know that a 

 more obstinate refusal ' ' to get up and git " I never encoun 

 tered. 



Tim Lyden, whose name I have already mentioned, was 

 one of the mast useful retainers that a sporting man could 

 possibly wish for. He knew almost everything connected 

 with the habits of the various descriptions of game, and of 

 vermin, too, with which "the houseless wilds of Connemara" 

 abounded. He also had much deep lore and practical skill in 

 the "gentle art," and was as untiring and faithful as a dog. 

 He was always ready on emergencies, and had various little 

 useful accomplishments, which were always corning in oppor- 

 tunely. For instance, when I wished to start in my canoe — 

 a somewhat rickety conveyance, without a keel, made of 

 tarred canvas stretched over a light wooden framework in the 

 regular Arran Island fashion— I would take off my watch and 

 leave it behind, as I had nothing to do but start Tim with the 

 correct hour, after which he could carry in his head the 

 lapse of time, and tell me at any moment during the day what 

 the time was with unfailing accuracy. 



Once he and I started alone with a small canoe to investi- 

 gate a part of the coast which even Tim himself had never 

 visited. We had had the canoe transported about forty miles 

 overland on a country cart, and were entering on a region 

 where even the scattered huts of the hardy fishermen or kelp 

 burners were not to be seen. The wild and desolate beauty 

 of these bays mil forever haunt me. Whether dancing in 

 glittering wavelets under a bright morning sun, or glowing in 

 sheeny silver on a calm afternoon; or, better still, while weird 

 and shadow-flecked beneath a stormy moon — they were always 

 lovely, always new. On the occasion I speak of, we had 

 rowed to the head of a small inlet, and taking the light canoe 

 on our shoulders, had made a portage of a few yards over a 

 narrow neck of land into another sheet of water beyond. No 

 sooner had we got ready to start rowing afresh than Tim— 

 whose powers of vision were absolutely marvelous— caught 

 sight of a seal sunning himself on a distant rock. 



A council of war to decide on the best plan of approach was 

 instantly held, and we determined to paddle the canoe cautious- 

 ly round the bay, which was apparently entirely landlocked, 

 keeping as close under the lee of the shore as possible. We 

 knew, of course, that there must be an opening somewhere 

 among the rocks into the open sea beyond, though, as is often 

 the case, we could see no sign of one from the position we 

 were in. We were destined to know more about that point, 

 however, ere long. On we went, and after pulling slowly 

 and cautiously for some time, we observed that the tide, 

 which was falling, ran quite strongly enough to take us in the 

 direction we wanted to go without help from the oars. 



Presently I myself began to imagine I could distinguish 

 something like the shape of an animal on the rock where Tim, 

 who could see it quite plainly, had pointed out the seal. Soon 

 after the creature moved its head slowly from side to side, 

 and I began to make out its contour distinctly, and keeping 

 my eye steadily fixed on him, got my rifle in readiness. At 

 the rate we were going, a very few minutes more would 

 bring us within range. 



