808 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[July 27, 1883, 



fledged. If we do not have rain before long, woodcock 

 shooting in August at this place will be poor. I flushed in 

 a short t'me quite a number of grouse, so I think we may 

 expect some excellent sport with this noble bird the coming 

 fall. My brother found a quail's nest to-day with eighteen 

 eggs in it. Is not this rather late for quail?— J. C. C. 

 [The first nest may have been broken up.] 



tmnp Jffrf ^fllicktifings. 



"That reminds me." 

 Editor Forest and Stream: 



For the comfort of your New Mexican correspondent, I 

 will say that the story which he sends you. and is published 

 by you in your issue of the 18th inst., does "make Major J. 

 Verity hang his head" for very shame that man will tell such 

 unreasonable tales. 



It is generally considered the hunter's and angler's privi- 

 lege to somewhat enlarge, their exploits in the narration, 

 though it has always seemed to me that they should hold 

 quite as strictly to (he absolute facts, as should any writer 

 of natural history, and every accurate account of experiences 

 in the field is in some sort a contribution to that science. 

 Yet, allowing them all re;,snnable latitude, their stoiies 

 should be consistent. If 1 were going to tell a he, which 

 the Lord forbid, it should have the semblance and the possi- 

 bility of truth. I would not insult my audience with such 

 an absurdity as putting a ferocious beast and his natural 

 prey in such comfortable proximity that my one bullet 

 should kill them both. I do not consider the elk, deer, or 

 whatever he was. a remarkably large one, but he had no 

 business there. The story in question reminds me of that, 

 told by a boaster of his having killed a deer with his scythe 

 while he was going out to mow, and wheft asked how it 

 happened that he could get near enough to so wary and fleet 

 an animal to so kill it, replied that the deer was stuck fast 

 in a snowbank! In a forthcoming chapter of my unremark- 

 able; adventures ] shall tell how I once got more than two 

 large animals of different species by one timely delivered 

 shot, and I will vouch for its being as true as any story I 

 have ever told, which, I think, is sufficient guaranty'of 

 veracity. Yours, ever for the truth. 



Joseph Verity, U. 8. H. M. 



Adieonda, July 19, 1882. 



hx and Miver 



Open Seasons.— See table of open seasons for game and fish 

 in issue of July 20. 



I would you were a brother of the angle; for a companion that is 

 cheerful, aud free from swearing and scurrilous discourse, is worth 

 gold. I love such mirth as does not make friends ashamed to look 

 upon one another next morning, nor men that cannot well bear it 

 to repent the money they spend when they be warmed with drink, 

 and take this for a rule, you may pick out such times and such com- 

 panies that you may make yourselves merrier for a lttle than a great 

 deal of money, for "it is the company, and not the charge, that 

 makes he feast," and such a companion you prove I thank you for 

 it.— Izaak Walton. 



TROUT FLIES DICTATED BY RELIGION 

 AND MUSIC. 



THE construction of tro- t flies has long been a subject of 

 argument and discussion beeween fly-fishermen, one 

 Hide reasoning, with a good show of being right, that an ex- 

 act imitation of nature was the most likely to take trout (of 

 course with the same amount of skill in" using them), the 

 other side claiming that any monstrous combination of' fui 

 and feather, the like of which never was seen in the water 

 or out of it, was the most killing. There are few rules with- 

 out an exception, and both sides make a good showing when 

 arguing from an experience with single fish, and not on a 

 general average. There is no accounting for what an indi- 

 vidual trout may do, any more than there is what an indi- 

 vidual woman may do. 'Trout sometimes take the fly under 

 very strange and incomprehensible circumstances. I will 

 relate two instances by way of illustration. 



I was camping at .Setting Pole, aud had Cort row me to 

 the side of the river opposite the camp. While fishing 

 there, a young man and his guide came to the camp and 

 commenced fishing in front, with bait, from a large, flat 

 rock. Cort looked up at what he considered an intrusion, 

 much as one dog might look if he thought another dog would 

 take his bone. The old-time guides were not without ideas 

 of etiquette. The young man soon caught a large trout, but 

 in pulling him out with needless force, broke the line, the 

 trout falling on the rock. The man threw himself flat upon 

 the rock in his endeavor to stop I he fish from regaining the 

 water, the fall resulting only in the man seriously hurting 

 his hand. The fish escaped. Cortwatched the whole scene 

 without moving a muscle until he saw the man's misfortune, 

 when he laughed heartily, but without uttering a sound! 

 The man departed, and we recrossed the river. I cast my 

 flies from the rock, and took the trout with the hook and 

 line in his mouth. 



Another time I was sitting in my room watching ihe 

 shadow slowly cover the river, waiting for the time to go up 

 to the dam, when a strange man came beneath my window, 

 examined carefully the assortment of bean poles with lines 

 on them, chose one and went up the river. I did not love 

 that man as myself, though he may have been my neighbor. 

 He soon returned, and replaced his bean pole by the side of 

 the house. Then my time came. I went up and hooked a 

 large trout on the first cast. Before landing him I could see 

 that his face was bleeding very much When taken out of 

 the water, I found one side of his face entirely torn off. I 

 . showed him to the strange man, my neighbor — loving him a 

 little more then — and asked him if he did that. He said he 

 did. I loved him then as myself, because I got the fish and 

 he did not. 



The above two instances go to show that trout will take a 

 fly thinking it food doubtless, when they had good reason to 

 be miserably unhappy. 



Twenty -five years ago, when flies were used in the Adiron- 

 dack waters, the scarlet ibis, or a piece of a red flannel shirt 

 was the fly of all others most in favor. Of late years it is 

 hardly ever seen, and when seen is of little or no value. The 

 reason is plain. Twenty-five years ago the waters were so 

 full of trout very few shiners and other coarse Ashes were al- 



lowed to grow. H'.nce the trout were always kept on half 

 rations, and welcomed with joy anything thrown at them, 

 be it an ibis-fly or a piece of a guide's shirt. Now when the 

 trout are few. the shiners, etc., have increased so that any 

 lazy trout can get a good meal as often as he likes without 

 leaving his hole. A well-fed fish, like a well-fed person, can 

 afford to be more nice in selection than a starving one. 



But I am wandering from the idea I had in view when I 

 commenced writing, which was that with the exception of 

 a few standard makes, like, for instance, the May-fly, Coach- 

 man, Romeyn, etc., the style and coloring of flies as made 

 and sold, is' governed not' by what the trout like, but by 

 national music, and national religion, the last being the 

 most powerful, governing the former. In this country we 

 have no national" music nor national religion. Neither, as a 

 rule, have we native fly makers. They are either Scotch or 

 Irish. The fish, waters and climate are not materially differ- 

 ent in the two countries in which they learn the art of fly 

 making, but the men and their habits of thought are as 

 different as possible. They leave the impression of their 

 thoughts on their work. 



The Scotchman has the most depressing of all religions; 

 has very little expectation, or hope of his "final salvation. If 

 he sings at all at his work, which is doubtful, he chooses the 

 saddest of all songs — 



"When Jamie bad been gone a twelvemonth and a day. 

 My Fetlier brak his arm and our cow was stole away. 

 My Mither taken sick and Jamie on the sea, 

 And old Robin Gray he came courting me-- 



My Pelher argued, sair, my Mither dinna speak, 



But she looked in my face 'til I thought my heart would break, 



She gie him my hand, ray heart was on the sea, 



And old Robin Gray he came a gudeman to me." 



Who with such sad thoughts and sad music could make a 

 bright gay fly (unless working from a model) that would 

 skip over the rippling waters like a thing of life. 



The Irish fly maker, on the contrary, "takes no thought of 

 the morrow. His religion sits lightly upon him and is not 

 depressing-, If he sius, he confesses the same, and is for- 

 given. He has then no responsibility of the past or fear of 

 the future. _ He goes to his work with cheerfulness, com- 

 bines the bright colors with an imagination not weighted by 

 the doubt of his "election." In every bright feather he 

 sees a possible trout he expects to take next Sunday after 

 an early mass. He sometimes takes a little whisky with a 

 slight aroma of peat smoke in it. If he sings, it is— 



"I've a wife to wed. and shure I am willing to take her, 

 But there she lies in the bed and the devil himself can't wake her, 

 Don't say nay, charming Judy Flanigan, 

 Don't say nay, you love Barney Brannigan." 



In the two songs, if you know the music, you can see the 

 two schools of fly making. Try the former, they are proper, 

 conventional, each adapted to the various months of the year' 

 and with them you will take a few small trout. .When your 

 arm aches with fruitless casting, if you are beside some deep 

 pool where there should be large trout and you would have 

 a great joy the memory of which would last" you even to the 

 time when you can fish no more, sit down, light vour pipe, 

 smoke it most out, then look over your book until you find 

 a perfect nightmare of colors combined ou one hook made 

 by the man who cracked with his buckthorn stick at the 

 bulge in the tent, and when told that that was his father's 

 head, said he "couldn't help it, the chance was too good to be 

 lost." Put it on, drop it lightly on the water and you will 

 not wait long to have a "Donnybrook Fair" all to your- 

 self. L. S. 



Los ANGELES, Cah 



AN OWER TRUE TALE. 



AS an illustration of the trials and difficulties attending 

 those who have determined to adhere closely to the 

 truth under all circumstances, I will relate the adventures 

 of a fishing party who left this city a few weeks for a trial 

 of their skill on the waters of Bamegat Bay. The party 

 was composed of fifteen congenial spirits, known as the 

 "Long Bill" Fishing Club. The writer was one of the select 

 few, and knows all the bottom facts in the case. Previous 

 to our departure, a meeting of the club was held in Bird's 

 carpenter shop, and it was then and there resolved that no 

 member should tell a lie, or any part of a lie, about any of 

 the transactions of the club during their labors on the bay. 

 All must be truthful to the letter, under penalty of such 

 punishment as provided for in the by-laws. 



With light hearts and clear consciences we traveled two 

 by two alongside of our heavy satchels to the depot. On 

 the morning after our arrival at Bamegat, coaches conveyed 

 the truthful fifteen to the bay, where five boats awaited us. 

 We were assorted out and allotted three to a boat. Lines 

 were got ready, and the work for blue fishing soon com- 

 menced. It can be truly said that it was blue fishing that 

 day. Not a fish for our boat. Our boat was manned by 

 Long Bill, Bird, and the writer. We, however, did not 

 lose heart, but made the anticipation of the morrow cheer 

 us up. The next day things seemed to be worse than blue. 

 We toiled hard until four o'clock, when black despair took 

 hold of us. We threw down" our squids, crawled into the 

 cabin out of the sun, and went to sleep, every man of us 

 except the captain. 



How long we slept I know not, but this I know, that we 

 was suddenly awakened by the greatest racket that ever was 

 heard on any boat this side of pa< demonium. The boat was 

 full of fish. Yes, full, so full that we had not sufficient 

 room to get about. "Great Cassar! What a miracle!" "How 

 did it happen?" Wc all cried with one accord to the cap- 

 tain 



The captain, after due deliberation, replied laconically, 

 ' 'The boat went through a school, the fish smelt, or saw the 

 squids, in the boat, and unanimously jumped aboard. " 



The boat ran in, we went ashore. Now came the most 

 trying time of all. The crowd gathered around, and greeted 

 us with, "Did you catch all them fish?" We looked at each 

 other for a moment, then with one voice responded, no. 

 The next inquiry was, ' 'Who did catch them?" Another 

 look all around, and the response came, "No one." The 

 crowd immediately voted us a set of liars. That evening we 

 were court-martialed, and made to tell the truth clear and 

 clean, but the more we explained the more we were con- 

 demned and upbraided for violating the commandment. 

 We were fined to do so no more, and ordered to set 'em up 

 all over the house three times. Long Bill and Bird are still 

 on the stool of repentance, and I don't want to go a-fishing. 



Too True. 

 Philadelphia. 



WITH HACKLES AND GENTLES. 



"To the stream let us go, 



Where the hawthorns do blow, 



And inhale the sweet balm of the vale; 



With our rods tight apd right, 



And our flies in good flight, 



Our spirits with joy we'll regale." 



IN the whole wide range of English literature there are no 

 fresher, sweeter "bits" than those descriptive of, or re- 

 lating to, the life of the angler. From the quaint and rare 

 book of Dame Juliana Berners to the "Coin pleat Angler," 

 and thence down to this present year of grace e try page ia 

 aglow with some "pretty phrase," some enthusiastic "out- 

 burst of admiration, or smne incomparable setting forth of 

 lovely stretch of stream, or meadow view. There is that in 

 angling that may not be found in any other pursuit, and 

 every implement of the "gentle art" hath its own peculiar 

 influence on the mind and spirits of its master. The devout 

 lover of nature may find "sermons in stones, aud good in 

 everything," this doth the honest angler and more. In rod 

 and reel; in creel and line; hi hook and fly; in float and 

 leader— yea! in the minutest trifle of his well ordered tackle 

 he may tind a lesson, or a sermon, in accord with, or supple- 

 mentary to, the glowing beauties of field and forest, of 

 placid lake or brawling stream. All poets are not anglers, 

 but 1 think it safe to assert that every true and gentle angler 

 is a poet, by the grace of God and by oft mingling with he 

 poetry of nature in the practice of his craft. A "contem- 

 plative" mind is of all minds a susceptible one, and the man, 

 or woman, who goes in quest of trout cannot fail (if at peace, 

 with his or her own conscience) to absorb the benign and 

 poetic influences of the lovely scenes that are outspread on 

 either hand. 



All this must be, however, where that infernal pest, the 

 "black fly," and his weak imitator, the mosquito, are not 

 found. Where these intrude I defy any saint of either sex 

 to make many "casts" without having recourse, more or less 

 emphatic, to some "damnatory clause" or other. Flesh and 

 blood can endure gracefully'many a heavy penance, but a 

 constant bite at the landward end of the rod dissipates both 

 gravity and grace. I have often wondered what our beloved 

 master in the craft, Walton, would have written of these 

 pests to the peace of angling in American and provincial 

 waters had he ever known them m dear old England! Ah! 

 as my thoughts flit thitherward, as imagination pictures the 

 lovely fishing streams and fragrant copses, I long to be there. 

 "As pants the hart for water brooks, 



So do I pant to be 

 Once more an angler on thy banks, 

 My river bright and free. 



"The summer winds, that tremblingly 

 Through reeds and flag-flowers quiver, 



Sing thee a dreamy luUaby, 

 O, gentle angling river ! 



"Roll on, roll on, I shall not draw 



A moral from thy race, 

 Enough for me, O, angling stream, 



Thy pleasant banks to trace." 



Of all fishing I prefer to fish a stream, and by "stream" I 

 mean any flowing water, from a stride-wide rivulet to a broad 

 river. There is vivacity, beside the trout, in a clear, swiftly 

 flowing brook, and the sparkling waters seem to be in jolly 

 sympathy with the angler, whose fly lightly falls upon the 

 most likely spot tor a glorious "rise." 'Tis" to be lamented 

 that clear streams are becoming foul whenever and wherever 

 the eye of man can see a chance to turn a penny by vdliiy 

 ing the waters, in many cases unnecessarily so. Where and 

 how shall we class such men? Let every true angler suit 

 his own taste in the classification of such. In many rases 

 they deserve the fate of the fine fish they have wilfully mur- 

 dered by reeking the waters with poison to all life therein. 

 I often wish that a congress of true sportsmen could be 

 authorized to make and enforce their own laws respecting 

 game and fish! Itis the duty of every one who carries rod 

 or gun, to constitute himself a keeper," and to make wherever 

 he W£ilks a preserve. The life and liberty of every form of 

 fin. fur or feather that is worth the cost, or the spot should 

 be sacred and the close season be a respected one. Some 

 men are born pot-huntere and poachers and some are made 

 such by evil inclination or association. As individuals and 

 as a class (there is no difficulty in their classification!) they 

 must be closely watched, and made amenable to whatever 

 laws exist, That these may be made better should be the 

 wish and the purpose of the sportsman everywhere. 



Well, my friend, white I have waited tor your coming I 

 have let my thoughts run riot, and had but now discovered 

 how tardy you are. A "good excuse" alone can win you to 

 favor, and although 'tis o'er late for any luck at fishing, wo 

 will go to the river and there you shall' make your plea. 1 

 abhor a laggard angler almost as much as I do a listless one, 

 both types betoken some essential element lacking in his 

 piscatorial character. I defy a lazy or listless man to make 

 a good angler. They are utterly incompatible. 



The sun is too high in the heavens even to "catch 

 minnows," and the bass and the perch have sought the deeps. 

 whence they may not be lured till long after mid-day. There 

 may be some restless fingerling which you might secure, but 

 we want no such sport (?) and I will suffer no such "lakes." 

 I fail to see how any one. can enjoy killing smill fish, fit for 

 no use save to grow. It were far better to kill but two or 

 three brace of goodly -sized fish than to have the creel full of 

 two-ounce growing ones. Next to the invariable rule of 

 killing my good fish instantly, I have a rule, also as invari- 

 able, of returning to the water any under-sized fish that I 

 chance to hocik and that is not injured thereby. These two 

 laws are to me as were those of "the Medes and Persians" 

 to themselves. 



It is pleasant to sit on the bank of a river, even if it has no 

 remarkable fish within it. The water is suggestive, and the 

 imagination is soon at work at what may have been and 

 what, e'en now, might be! How these potentialities govern 

 life, I admit that it is sad to see a goodly river, and to 

 know there are no praiseworthy fish therein. The true 

 fisherman alone can understand this feeling — it is like, seeing 

 a casket with its jewel gone. There are' some "deeps" in 

 some rivers where I will never cast again. Of yore I raised 

 many a goodly fish therefrom, but coming once, long after, 

 I raised but sorry, or no specimens, and I lost heart to try 

 again. I gave such spots a longing look, think of the refrain 

 of Poe's "Raven," and pass on. 



Let us pass on to yonder shade and burn some 'baccy, watch 

 the sluggish waters flow, and await the eventide ere we 

 essay to" fish. 'Tis always well to have a volume sacred to 

 one's fishing bouts, whose author wrote in sympathy with 



