May 8, 1884.] 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



289 



in August. By deep water I mean thirty or forty feet, for 

 bass are rarely found in water of greater depth. The largest 

 bass I ever caught in a lake where I have fished more or less 

 for twenty-five years. I took on a pike gang that was trolling 

 in forty feet of water, with an eight-ounce sinker, for pike 

 —E. Lucius, 



One great wrong to the bass fishing is the trolling of the 

 shores of lakes and rivers for pike with gangs at a time 

 wben the bnss are either on or leaving their beds, and are 

 still about the shores with their fry. Many bass are thus 

 caught and the gang injures the fish, so that if they are 

 returned to the water but few can recover. The truth is, 

 the bass are not often returned to the water when so taken; 

 the fisherman argues that the bass will die anyway, and he 

 may as well keep them. Another wrong is done in retaining 

 small bass. The law says that it is unlawful to catch black 

 bass of one-half pound or under, but the limit should be a 

 pound, for bass are so voracious that little ones of an ounce 

 or two will bite a hook, and many of less than half a pound 

 are necessarily injured in taking them from the hook, and 

 in hundreds of cases there is no pretense of returning under- 

 sized bass to the water. If the limit in weight was one 

 pound, there would be less excuse for a person to keep a two- 

 ounce bass, thinking it weighed eight ounces. Many anglers 

 now refuse to basket black bass that weigh less than sixteen 

 ounces. The example is good, but the trouble is that these 

 gentlemen do not fish with the people who keep the finger- 

 lings. 



The province of the Anglers' Association is to educate the 

 people in the way of all legitimate means of angling, as well 

 as to enforce existing laws that foster our game fish; and a 

 striking proof of the great good that can be done by an asso- 

 ciation like your own, is the letter in a recent impression of 

 the Utica Observer to your president from a fish dealer, sug- 

 gesting co-operation in this grand work of reforming exist- 

 ing evils. The letter of the gentleman referred to touches 

 one of the great roots of the matter, and the accomplishment 

 of the suggestions therein will be a grand work in itself, for 

 which the angling brotherhood will rise up and call you 

 blessed. 



FLY-BOOKS. 



Editor Forest and Stream: 



"Governor's" communication in your last issue but re- 

 echoes a complaint common to the whole angling fraternity. 

 Fly-books, as usually made, are justly open to bis criticism. 

 They are an excellent thing to "putter" over in the winter, 

 but sometimes exceedingly awkward to use on the stream. 



In seasons past I have tied all my large flies with loops 

 only, and quite small loops at that. When fishing in Maine, 

 where a boat is almost invariably used, I have found no fly- 

 book so convenient as a shallow cigar box. 

 * This spring, unable to see why this should not work well 

 on small flies, 1 tied up a number of midges with small 

 loops. Though as yet only tried in two days' fishing, it 

 seems to be an improvement. 



Where the loops pertaining to the leader and tail-fly join, 

 is very conspicuous in the water, since these seem to catch 

 and imprison the air, thus giving rise to brilliant reflections 

 of light. This, if true, is all the more objectionable since 

 the short snells for flies have come into general use. 



Therefore to such as are disgusted with fly -books they may 

 happen to have, this is sugg«sted: 



1. That all flies be tied with small loops. 



2. That the loop on the fly-end of the leader be omitted, 

 and the tail-fly simply tied on with the same knot by which 

 the leader is ordinarily secured to the line — a knot we all 

 know will never slip, yet will infallibly loose with ease. 



3. That separate short pieces of gut for the drop-fiies be 

 attached to the leader in any of the usual ways, and the 

 drop-flies secured thereto in the same manner as the tail-fly. 

 Thus, when a drop-fly is to be changed, the fly will be 

 merely unfastened from the gut, the latter remaining attached 

 to the leader. 



Three advantages at least appear to be secured by this 

 method: 



1. Every fly may be used indifferently as a tail or drop- 

 fly. 



2. The visibility of the connection between the leader and 

 flies is reduced to the minimum, since the knot is so close to 

 the head of the fly as really to form part of it. 



3. An ordinary tin chewing tobacco box becomes a most 

 convenient fly -book, in which every fly may be seen and that 

 desired selected at a glance. The usual fly-book then be- 

 comes a mere repository for material for repairs, leaders, 

 strands of gut for droppers, and perhaps the reserve stock 

 of flies in paper envelopes; and resort to it while actually 

 fishing would rarely be required. 



Of course like other reforms, if this, may be entitled to be 

 so considered, the change should be gradually made, since it 

 would be folly at ouce to discard a good stock of snelled 

 flies, merely for this purpose. Nor have 1 used this method 

 long enough to justify me in asking that the foiegoingbe 

 considered as other than a suggestion, on the strength of 

 which radical action would be unwise. 



New York, May 5, 1884. HENRY P. WELLS. 



PHILADELPHIA NOTES. 



THE trout fishing season in our State has been good thus 

 far. Harrisburg, Pa., anglers state that it has not been 

 better for years past. Many good fish have been taken from 

 Newville Creek, Pa., and good catches have been made by 

 Alderman Eager, Mr. Horace Lutz, Mr. W. L. Powell, Mr. 

 Charles Greek, Mr. Lerne Lemer and Dr. Vallorcbamp, of 

 our capital. Mr. W. P. Seiler, of Harrisburg, accompanied 

 by his friend, Rev. John R. Paxton, of New York, have 

 taken some fine fish from Silver Springs, Pa. Your corre- 

 spondent had good success with the fly on two Pennsylvania 

 trout streams, and I fancy the growlers who state that Penn- 

 sylvania trout fishing is not worth seeking on account of the 

 small size of the fish, would have altered their tone if they 

 could have seen my creel. Not a wonderful display for 

 numbers, I will confess, but a lot of average and good-sized 

 trout, taken from a stream well worn on both sides by paths 

 made by anglers. Perhaps I was lucky in just striking the 

 day, but I warrant the fish were educated, and appeared to 

 remember the spring of 1883 when they were smaller. 



Ply-fishing for bass is regularly practiced here with suc- 

 cess by two or three gentlemen living in our immediate 

 vicinity as soon as the season opens; and I am told they have 

 been very successful, especially during the month of June, 

 just below the rifts in Perkiomen Creek, and in the swift 

 water below the dam on the Schuylkill River, above Consho- 

 hocken. The report comes to me from such reliable sources 

 I shall make an effort to test the matter and report to you. 

 There were some rainbow trout placed in the Upper Per- 



kiomen Creek by the Anglers' Association of Eastern Penn- 

 sylvania about a' year since. Now that it is said that the rain- 

 bow trout is nothing but the young of the California salmon 

 (this I am not yet satisfied to accept), it will be interesting to 

 look for the outcome of the planting. I have my fears, how- 

 ever, be these fish what they may, the bass of the Perkiomen 

 Creek will prevent a satisfactory solution of the question, 

 Homo. 



FISHING AFOOT. 



Editor Forest and 8t>r<o/i: 



It is not every one in whom the love of true sport is 

 as surely planted as was in Izaak Walton himself, that can 

 take a month to visit the lakes and rivers of Canada, the 

 trout lakes of Maine, or even some noted river or creek in 

 his own State, to enjoy to the full the fascinating sport. 

 Many have to be content with whatever fishing they may 

 find 'in their immediate vicinity. Car fares, board bills, and 

 time lost is often too great an expense to be met, and the 

 enjoyment of watching the cunningness of the fish with 

 fisherman's wisdom has to be given up. But three boys of 

 the Keystone State were not to be cheated of the pleasures of 

 spending a week in this sport by a lack of filthy lucre. "We 

 can easily walk to Uncle George's, and after we are there we 

 can very soou trot up to the woods," says George, the oldest 

 of the brothers. Frank and Peter agree with "him on this 

 point, and they make preparations to start. 



Saturday momiug bright and early the trio could have 

 been seen by early risers striding briskly along the public 

 road leading toward Jefferson county, Pa. George and 

 Frank are tall and move over the ground like amateur go-as- 

 you-pleasers, but Peter is so very small that he usually keeps 

 upon a slow trot to keep from failing behind . He is four- 

 teen years old and weighs about sixty -five pounds, but is as 

 tough as whalebone and as spry as a weasel. Frank and 

 Gesrge say they will "run him down" before they reach 

 Worthville. Peter only laughs and tells them to "light out" 

 then, as he can keep up his present pace all day*, which 

 would cover much more than the twenty -five miles of road 

 lying between their home and Worthville. But they soon 

 forget this little rivalry and make the most of seeing all that 

 is to be seen through the country along their course. Reach- 

 ing the top of Mahoning Hill they have a splendid view of 

 all the country south of them. The sun is just rising over 

 the hills to their left, three miles away, and Mahoning Creek 

 looks like a stream of molten silver where the sun strikes it 

 between the hills. Beneath the high ridges running north 

 and south the fog lies dense and motionless like a sea of 

 light snow. The air is hollow and carries the sound of the 

 Stewartson furnace steam engine plainly to them. They 

 cannot see the Allegheny River, but the winding line of 

 heavy mist rising above the hills very plainly shows the 

 course of the stream for a dozen miles or more. As the sun 

 rises higher and dispels the fog, the furnace with its scat- 

 tered houses and gas-well derrick grows into view. Beyond 

 the furnace and on the highest hill in the country near by 

 the two oddly -shaped cucumber trees known as the king and 

 queen can be plainly seen. They see all this and much more 

 while walking steadily forward. They have eyes and know 

 how to use them. They have not lived in the country all 

 their lives for nothing. Now the road winds along the 

 sandy top of a long ridge, and there is little of interest to be 

 seen. They notice a golden-shafted woodpecker's nest, and 

 see why they are sometimes called high-holes. This nest is 

 at least fifty or sixty feet above the ground in the smooth 

 and limbless trunk of a dead chestnut, or what appears to 

 be a chestnut from the road. This pair will be sale from 

 any prowUng oologists at least. Passing a field thickly over- 

 grown with briers and scrub oaks, George tells the boys to 

 look out for a chat, and sure enough they see one of these 

 skulking birds gliding along beneath the thickest brush. 

 Only for an instant they see it, and then it is as effectually 

 out 'of view as if no such bird existed. 



Oakland, ten miles from their point, they reach at 8 

 o'clock. Crackers and cheese are bought, a few questions 

 asked and answered, and they are again on the road. Red 

 Bank Creek is soon in view, and a train of cars is seen enter- 

 ing the tunnel four miles up the creek, and coming out on 

 the other side of the narrow hill, and twisting itself in and 

 out along the creek's tortuous course, until it rumbles behind 

 a hill and is lost to view. 'Tis seven miles around by the 

 creek, while the tunnel is but two or three hundred feet in 

 length. The dealer in general merchandise in Oakland told 

 the boys that there was good bass fishing in the creek near 

 this bend, and had the hill been less precipitous and their 

 road less long, they would have been tempted to prove the 

 truth or falsity of this information. 



It is the second of June, and as they pass a "city of the 

 dead" they see the fresh wreaths lying on a half-hundred 

 mounds, speaking volumes of the patriotism of the brave men 

 who once fell. They have left half of the road behind them, 

 and it is not yet 10 o'clock, so they open the unlocked gate 

 and pass along the graves, reading the names and epitaphs at 

 the foot of each, A mile or so further on they meat a bushy- 

 haired teamster driving a very scrawny span of bays, tug- 

 ging away at a ton and a half of iron ore, who greets them 

 with, "Are you gentlemen from Mahoning?" 



"We're from near that place," George answers. 



"See anything of Lize Williams down there?" This, look- 

 ing over the side of the wagon with a grin on his face, 



"Have not the honor of the lady's acquaintance," Frank 

 says with mock politeness. 



"Oh! I thought maybe you'd seen her," and he drives 

 slowly on, while the boys go ahead briskly to overtake Peter 

 who has not stopped. They wonder who "Lize" is, and why 

 the bushy teamster is interested in her whereabouts. Peter 

 supposes that she is the teamster's wife and has taken French 

 leave for the benefit of her eyes, which might have been, and 

 thus they dropped it. 



Twenty-five miles is no little walk to legs and feet that 

 are habitually doubled up in a Keystone iron ore mine. 

 Peter says it takes sixty-five thousand steps to traverse the 

 distance. But even this appalling number will at length be 

 finished, and as the sun crosses the meridian the country 

 loses its familiar look, and the boys know tbey have passed 

 the limits of their native county, and entered' the pine and 

 hemlock-covered hills of Jefferson. Rocks-r-hard, flinty, 

 gray sandstones — are seen on every side, and the soil looks 

 anything but fertile. Little 8andy is seen below them with 

 its laurel and rock-lined banks. The hill on either side is a 

 weary waste, showing nothing but rocks, rocks, rocks, and 

 the blackened and lifeless trunks of ten thousand pines. 

 Many years ago a cyclone swept up the creek, devastating all in 

 its course. The livid fire in the midst of the circling winds 

 instantly destroyed every tree in its course, and now the 

 place is a famous berry field, where, amid the rocks and 

 rattlesnakes, the hardy and undaunted berry pickers fill 



great pails and baskets with whortle and blackberries in 

 their respective seasons. 



The boys have reached their uncle's house, and are resting 

 themselves in his cool best room. Uncle George is in Worth- 

 ville, and his good wife entertained her nephews, They bave 

 soon dispatched a substantial meal, and are looking at the 

 sows and pigs, the chickens and garden, the young corn and 

 potatoes, and asking questions about every thing when their 

 uncle returns. He is pleased to see his dead brother's sons, 

 brings out his two rifles and a revolving pistol, and invites 

 them to shoot with him. Shooting is Uncle George's favor- 

 ite pastime, when he has not time to go to the creek, a couple 

 of miles distant. They shoot a while, and then, the sun yet 

 being a couple of hours high, they trump over the two hills 

 to the creek at Worthville, to "try their luck" on suufish 

 and chubs. There is a sawmill here and a "bracket" dam, 

 and just under the "apron" of the dam the suufish are gener- 

 ally quite plenty. But for some unknown reason the fisli 

 would not bit?, and the fishers leaving the dam, went back 

 of the little village and fished in the creek, but with no bet- 

 ter success. At dusk they retraced their steps, wearily 

 enough now, and reach the house disgusted with "chub" 

 fishing, and boasting of what they witl do on the coming 

 Monday, when they propose to go to the Middle Branch, to 

 fish for trout. 



Monday morning Uncle George complains of not feeling 

 well, and as there is an appearance of 'rain, all reluctantly 

 agree that they had better wait until the next day before 

 starting to the trout streams. But they will try Little Sandy 

 again for chub and sunfish. A lot of angle worms are spaded 

 up, hooks and lines are arranged, and they start for the 

 creek. The chubs bite savagely to-day, and before noon they 

 have caught over sixty. They are not very large, but what 

 they lack in size they more than make up in quality. 



"Let us catch the even hundred," says Uncle George. 



"All right," Frank answers. "We lack only thirty-four." 



"I'll catch twenty if you boys catch the other fourteen," 

 Uncle George proposes. 



"Agreed!" they chorus, and the race is begun, but strange 

 as it may appear, Uncle George had caught his twenty ere 

 the boys had landed six. But they were all tired and hungry, 

 and started homeward with their ninety-two chubs. At* a 

 little bend in the creek there lay an old log, partly submerged. 

 George threw in near the log and instantly hooked a large 

 sunfish. Then they all crowded along the bank and dropped 

 in their carefully baited hooks. Five more sunfish and two 

 suckers were caught, making their hundred, and then fold- 

 ing their lines, and throwing away their rods, they started 

 homeward. After dinner, they cleaned their fish, and what 

 a time they had of it! George was covered with fish scales 

 from head to foot, but he only laughed, and said he would 

 be scalier yet before he was through fishing. Aunt Ellen, 

 who never did like fish, says she can't see why any person 

 would fish a half day in the scorching sun for the lik.es of 

 their fish. They all laugh and tell her they are only "getting 

 their hand in," preparatory to the real "fishing scrape," as 

 Uncle George calls it. 



But if Uncle George felt ill in the morning, he was really 

 sick in the evening, and even the next morning yet felt too 

 bad to go far from home. Consequently Tuesday was spent 

 in looking about the woods near by for nests of hawks. But 

 it was too late for broad-winged hawks and no other variety 

 were seen. Uncle George showed the boys where he had 

 once killed a deer— a fine doe— with a little shotgun while 

 hunting pigeons. Unfortunately she ran a quarter mile after 

 being shot, and was not found until unfit for food. They 

 looked for the bones, but could find none. Doubtless foxes 

 or dogs had long since carried them away, as it was twenty- 

 three years since the deer was slain. Peter shot a couple of 

 chipmunks off the fence with a little revolver, and George 

 took a couple of long-range shots at crows with one of the 

 rifles. Some snowbirds were seen in a cool pine-shrouded 

 ravine, but after a careful search, the hope of finding a nest 

 was given up. A hawk's nest was visited that had been 

 razed a month before by some of the farmers near. George 

 ascended to the nest, but got nothing but a few broken shells. 

 much discolored by the action of the sun and rain. Thus 

 the day was spent," all impatient to be off to the woods of 

 which Uncle and George talked so enthusiastically They 

 had fished in the streams before, and pictured in glowing 

 colors the size of the trees, the density and coolness of the 

 whole forest, and the probability of their seeing a deer or 

 fawn before their return. 



Wednesday morning, just as the sun looks over the hill 

 with a ominously red eye, the party of four start up the lane 

 en route for Middle Branch. Aunt Ellen tells them that it 

 will rain before ten o'clock and that they had better wait 

 another day. But they were too anxious to be off, and said 

 the sky would soon clear off or the rain would all go 'round. 



' 'Call Ned, Peter, " Uncle George says, as they reach the 

 head of the lane. "We want a dog to watch while we are 

 sleeping." 



Ned is standing in the lane near the house. Aunt Ellen 

 bids him come back, but Peter only laughs and calls the 

 louder. Ned would like to go with the fishers, but he hears 

 Aunt Ellen calling him back. 



"Fire your revolver," said Uncle George. Bang! bang! 

 into the fence, as if at a chipmunk, and Ned comes hound- 

 ing up the lane, yelping with delight. He is a pretty, pug- 

 shaped dog, always accustomed to being petted and spending 

 most of his time* in the house. He was a year and a half 

 old, but had been iD the woods but a couple of times. Aunt 

 Ellen said he could not stand the fatigue of tramping a 

 couple of days through the woods and water. The party 

 carried a huge basket containing doughnuts, light cakes, 

 lard, butter, knives, pans and salt, everything needed for 

 their comfort for then intended two days' stay in the forest. 

 There is nothing of special interest in the walk up the creek. 

 They take over hills and through forests for four miles ; then 

 along the creek past McKinsters, a brisk little village lying- 

 in a pleasant bend of the creek ; then over a farm to save a 

 long walk around by the creek, and they are on the outskirts 

 of the wilderness. The road plunges into a mass of tall hem- 

 locks and threads its way dimly up the creek. How tall and 

 slender these useful trees are. Their tops weave themselves 

 together in a thin canopy nearly a hundred feet above the 

 fishers' heads. 



"Isn't it quiet in here?" Peter says, looking away through 

 the forest until the view is shut out by the blending of all 

 the tree trunks into one solid dark wall. 



"Yes," replies George, "and when you once reach the real 

 forest it will be quieter yet. Isn't this a treat to us who at 

 home cannot remember a single moment of such solitude?" 



As the party pass Sparr's, the last human inhabitants, 

 they see old man Sparr busily churning on his porch, while 

 the Avomen ace working in the garden and driving their cows 

 to a distant pasture near the hilltop. 



