430 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



I Juke 24, 1888- 



Jonathan Darling, of Maine, has brought suit in the 

 Massachusetts courts for alleged seizure of a box containing 

 deer and caribou skins, heads and antlers, in the close- season. 

 Darling represents just the class of same butchers whom the 

 protective laws are designed to restrict, and he is naturally 

 the individual to raise a rumpus when his goods are seiised. 



Crow Indians in the Park. — A recent dispatch from 

 Fort Keogh, Mont., reports that small hunting bands of 

 Crow Indians have been killing many game animals in the 

 Yellowstone National Park. Col Weir, Superintendent, a 

 few days ago caught several of these hunting parties. 



! ! !— A supposed empty pistol in the hands of John At- 

 kins, a 12- year-old boy of Pottsville, Pa., was accidentally 

 discharged at a children's picnic while pointed directly at 

 G-eorge Farquhar, aged 15. ? ? ? ! ! ! 



Kansas WorvES.— An Easton (Kan.) man last week cap- 

 tured an old she wolf and seven young, for which he re- 

 ceived $24 bounty. 



So easy to row with Allen's bow-facers. Catalogue free. Oars 

 complete. $8 per pair. Fred A. Allen, Monmouth, 111.— Adv. 



\bu mid Sliver 



Address all communications to the Forest and Stream Publish- 

 ng Go. 



ONDAWA. 



THE high and mossy mountains roll along 

 Wavelike, beside thee dressed in feathery green, 

 "Whilst mighty equinox-a parent strong 

 Of myriad rivulets, with royal mien, 

 Head gray in cloud, o'ersbades the varied scene I 

 Through dells and grots or festooned dreamy woods, 

 1 Mid plains of emerald or solitudes 

 Dark with the crag, or from the canopy 

 Of leafy myst'ry, loud in childlike glee, 

 Thou fleest laughing, wild, tumultuous— free. 



And from thy limpid deeps or cascade's whirl, 

 Or the translucent eddy's oily curl 

 Leaps the bejewelled trout! Thus richer far 

 Than all the mines of gold art thou, Oh Ondawa. K. 

 Manchester, Vermont. 



edge of the dead cedar swamp through which it formerly 

 flowed for nearly three miles before entering the lake, but 

 now (I tell it as the neighbors told us) the stream had no 

 current through the swamp, the channel, however, four and 

 five feet in depth for more than two miles up. can be readily 

 followed between the walls of leafless, dead trees, killed by 

 the backwater, to near the outer edge of the deadening near 

 the hills, whence it emerges from its hiding of living green. 



Above the backwater for a mile or two, the Horton boys 

 and the schoolmaster had told us were some "mighty nice 

 holes" with good trout in them, which Dan and I have no 

 reason to doubt, but somehow something kept turning up 

 from day to day— mainly laziness — to prevent us from mak- 

 ing another trip to verify it. and as Knots said, "we had 

 only their unsupported word" as to the fine trout fishing to 

 be had in Cedar Pun. 



However, I have thought it worth while to point out the 

 stream to the brethren, that in case any of them wander that 

 way they may at least drown a fat worm or two in its limpid 

 waters, and if they happen to hook a "scrouger" they will 

 be glad TJncle Dan and I didn't get to the creek that day, for 

 that same big fellow would have been the very identical 

 trout we were looking after. 



Fishing slowly and patiently along on our way hack we 

 again ran across Meade and the two "spooners" a short dis- 

 tance above the sunken reef, just starting across the lake to 

 fish down the other side to the sawmill, where they had left 

 their team. The bottom of their boat was entirely covered 

 with fish ; long snouts of two to four pounds, and a fine lot 

 of bass, the largest of which, Meade said, would "hustle six 

 pounds," all taken with the spoon. Dan and I looked at 

 each other and said nothing; but 1 have labored under the 

 conviction ever since that each was longing for the other to 

 kick a little common sense into him. Dan and I had plenty 

 of spoones and trollers— in camp; we had forgotten to bring 

 our ' 'calamity boxes" along. Dan and I had plenty of 

 speckled frogs in our buckets ; Dan and I hadn't had a single, 

 solitary sign of a symptom the whole day. Our spirits were 

 crushed ; our pride as anglers humbled and trailing in the 

 dust (or water), and we turned our boat campward, as old 

 Dave Edwards used to say, "a feelin' too durned incend'ary 

 to express our prevarication." Kingfisher. 



AMONG THE ALDERS. 



I 



CAMPS OF THE KINGFISHERS. 



XVI. 



SINCE Jim and Knots had forgotten to wind up their 

 "talk" of the day before, after breakfast they were 

 off again in a boat for another hitch at it and another day 

 with the bass. Knots had reconsidered all his well-laid 

 plans and designs against the trout— a "mighty narrer 

 escape" for the trout of Maybert's Creek from being wiped 

 out of existence. 



The fishing proved but little better than that of the day 

 before, but we got enough to eat and a few for the neighbors. 

 Either the bass had not yet taken a notion to feed after the 

 storm, or had failed to find their haunts, and by Sunday 

 night old Knots was growling in a mild way at the lack of 

 sport, and even hinted that he would doubtless cut his visit 

 a few days shorter than first intended, but old Dan and I 

 had been out with him for a good many years and knew the 

 symptoms; his stock of "festivities" was running low, and 

 we could foretell the result. 



Around the camp fire that evening Dan and I laid out a 

 trip to the extreme head of the lake for next day, to 

 see if the fishing would prove any better up that way, and 

 after an early breakfast next morning we tooK the philos- 

 opher's boat, a light running cockle shell that had been sent 

 over to him from home a few days before, and were half 

 way to Alexander's point by the time the sun was well above 

 the trees. We did not hook on a frog until we were above 

 the point, and then we fished slowly along the incurving 

 shore to another point nearly a mile above, without a solitary 

 nibble. This was somewhat in the nature of a backset, but 

 the old pelican and the skipper had encountered numerous 

 small disappointments of the kind in the last score of years, 

 and we did not mind it much. 



A short distance below the point we met Meade, the boat- 

 man, who had brought Knots to camp, with a couple of 

 anglers out from Traverse City for a day's fish. They were 

 in a light yawl, Meade at the oars and the anglers trolling 

 with rods instead of the usual handlines. They had no live 

 bait, but had taken four or five pickerel and as many bass 

 with spoons which was quite encouraging to them, but Dan 

 and I could not quite figure out just the amount of our part 

 of the encouragement. 



At the point we found a bar or sunken reef reaching away 

 out in the lake eight to twelve feet under water, along the 

 lower side of which we fished carefully till it was lost in 

 deep water, then turning we fished back on the upper side 

 with equal care in glorious looking water for longsnouts or 

 bass without a tightening of our lines to disturb our pulse. 

 The signs had tailed us and not an abrasion marked the 

 speckled coats of our frogs trailing idly astern as we took our 

 way again up shore. 



While yet a mile and a half from the head of the lake the 

 wind rose suddenly, coming from a couple of points east of 

 north and in a few minutes the whole lake as far as we could 

 see was covered with whitecaps and the water too rough 

 for our little boat and we were moved to go ashore and wait 

 for the blow to go down, but after waiting nearly two hours 

 with no sign of a lull we got in the boat and started back, 

 pulling close along inshore to escape the full force of the 

 blast. When we had worked back nearly a mile in this 

 fashion, the Utile boat burying her bows in a wave every 

 few feet with a bang that threatened to split her bottom, the 

 fickle wind went down as suddenly as it had come up and in 

 less than thirty minutes a gentle breeze was actually blowing 

 from the opposite quarter or down the lake toward camp. 

 To quote old Dick M., "there's nothin' of sich a derogatory 

 natur' as wind." 



it was now rather late in the day to carry out our 

 original plan, which was to make a circuit around the 

 head of the lake and fish back on the east side and 

 cross over to camp about dark. We had also intended 

 to make a trip up Cedar Run, a stream coming in at 

 the upper end of the lake from the southwest, which we had 

 been told afforded some very good trout fiahing. From 

 where we landed to get out of the blow we could see the 



T rained quite hard on Tuesday night and I knew well 

 * that the next morning would be a good one for trout. 

 Then the day promised to be overcast with perhaps light 

 showers toward noon. "This is the time," said I to myself, 

 "and although I have suffered nearly all night with the 

 toothache, I must not let such a morning pass." 



It was with these reflections that I prepared myself for a 

 start immediately after breakfast, and took my way over the 

 hill and toward the "Low Meadow." 1 commenced fishing 

 in the pasture lot when it was possible to cast a fly; but this 

 state of things soon changed. Branches of black ash, yellow 

 birch and occasionally a maple began to extend themselves 

 across the stream, and now and then an alder bush (as it 

 were to remind one of what I was coming to) seemed to 

 take especial delight in growing just where it interfered 

 with my cast. 



As yet I had only taken three or four fish, none of them 

 large, however, nor even up to the medium size of a good 

 brook trout. It occurred to me that they might be some of 

 Dr. Fulmer's more recent stocking of the Dingman Creek, 

 in his efforts to improve the streams of Pike county, Pa. 



But now there is no chance for a fly, and if I will satisfy 

 my hunger for trout or entertain my friends, I must resort 

 to the unartistic method (as some think)' of bait-fishing. I 

 do this, not only with reluctance, but with fear. I have a 

 borrowed rod, light and limber as a switch, good enough for 

 fly-casting, (?) but from past experience I knew most embar- 

 rassing among the alders. 



However, there is no help for it. I must have some trout. 

 I have been longing for them, like many others, since the 

 spring opened, so the change of hooks is soon made and now 

 I am ready. No I am not, for as I take up my rod I find 

 the line entangled first on a root, then, as I loose this, upon 

 a huckleberry bush, (the tall kind) and finally upon a branch 

 that grows just over my head. But I loose it at length and 

 I see the water running deep aud swift by the trunk of an 

 old tree that stands on my side of the stream. Just below 

 it is a deep pool, completely covered by alders that spread 

 themselves almost flat upon its surface and interlock on each 

 side. "Here is a chance," I say, and with the utmost care 

 drop my line into the running water. The hook floats 

 down, down, almost to the very edge of the alders. I keep 

 it on the top of the water just as I would a fly. Now 1 

 have a rise and I strike, forgetful of the branches above, 

 below and behind me. I fail to fasten the hook where I 

 intended to, and fifteen feet up stream 1 saw it whirling 

 round and round a dried twig that sticks out from the side 

 of a birch and the rod bends like an umbrella as I make an 

 effort to recover the hook before it is really fast. It is of 



I have to lay the rod down and then get a stick and break 

 off the twig. And now after a lot more of untangling the 

 bait is in again. I wait as before, only this time the line is 

 shortened and I remember how I am to strike. The hook 

 has reached its old quarters and he secures it again. Now I 

 have him and he is doing his best to get back under the alders. 

 There is considerable flopping below me. It is no use though. 

 The rod draws as well as gives. But how am I to land him? 

 I have no net. I am doubtful if I could handle one even if I 

 had it in this brush. We must tire him a little and then seize 

 the line and lift him on the bank. Myl how the branches 

 do bother me, but be is landed at last. He is a half pounder 

 and just as large a fish as I care to handle under present cir- 

 cumstances. I take another one here of six ounces weight. 

 Now I have to make my way through the bushes for some 

 yards. They are as thick as they can stand and there is a fallen 

 tree in the way. What a time I have. The rod is pushed 

 before me of course and I try to follow it. It catches some- 

 times and so does my foot. It is a good thing I think that 

 my eyes are set well back in my head or they would catch 

 too. Certainly my nose has had several scratches. However, 

 by dint of care, by bending and turning, and picking my cap 

 up when it is knocked off, I come to a place where a large 

 tree has been cut down, and consequently where there is an 

 opening in the alders. A nice place nas to be passed through 

 where there is a "jam" in the stream, made by branches anc 

 sticks that have floated down against an old tree that has 

 fallen across the creek. No doubt there are fine fish there, 

 but it is impossible for me to get them. An axe must go 

 before the rod. The alders are too thick and they are grow- 

 ing in the "jam," while the branches of a yellow birch covers 

 the pool that lies below. Reluctantly I have to pass this 



place. But now I have a chance again. And for once it is 

 a good one. We can stand by this stump and let the line 

 float down to the edge of the alders below. We do this and 

 another fish rewards us. He will not weigh quite a half 

 pound, and I swing him on land just as I used to when I 

 was a boy. Meanwhile I had forgotten what was behind me, 

 and over I go on my back close by the side of the stump. 

 The flsh and rod fly back among the brush, and when 1 have 

 recovered myself 1 find the trout jumping and wriggling 

 among the dead branches, while the tip of the rod is broken 

 short off within six inches of the end. 



And now a new difficulty arises. In my haste to get 

 away I had forgotten to bring either thread or string. What 

 shall I do? I must not be cheated out of my fun. There is 

 only one thing to be done, and that is to take off the leader 

 and cut a small piece from my new silk line. The splice is 

 soon made and I am ready for another cast. This time I 

 want to drop th^ bait by the side of an old log that I see a 

 few inches under water. I make the effort, but some way 

 or other 1 miss my calculation or perhaps the rod is to blame, 

 and the hook goes a little too far. It is about to wind 

 around an alder twig, when I jerk it back, and then it is 

 fast just behind me on a birch sapling. This is pulled down, 

 and after a few minutes spent in untangling atrain I am 

 ready to throw in. This time I am even worse off than be- 

 fore. I see the hook is fast upon a branch that seems to be 

 growing just above the surface. There is no unloosing this. 

 It is fast, and the only thing to be done is to wade in and 

 save my leader. This I do, frightening all the fish — if there 

 are any — and feeling a dash of cold water as it goes down 

 the leg of my boot. 



But I go on. Now my cap is off and now my basket 

 catches. Now the end of my rod is fast, and now there is 

 a midge in my eye that stings like fire. Then it seems as 

 though all the spiders in the place had been spinning their 

 webs just on a line of my nose, and I cannot stop for a 

 moment before the black flies and mosquitoes settle on me. 

 1 am in a hole now. and the mud is more than half way to 

 my knees. "Oh!" I say. as I rub my eye and a mosquito is 

 piercing the first joint of my little finger, "how that thing 

 does sting." This may be fun, I think within myself. I 

 dare say it is for boys, but when they get to be as old as I 

 am, they better content themselves with fewer fish and 

 easier walking. 



But I manage to get out of this place as I have out of many 

 other difficult places, and I see before me quite a little reactt 

 of creek, where a few large trees grow aloug the bank, and 

 the alders and huckleberry bushes are in the rear. Now 1 

 wipe the perspiration from my face, and after drawing a 

 long sigh of relief, I began again. I must fish this place 

 carefully. I do so, and not a fh>h rewards my efforts. On I 

 go, and just below the reach 1 come to a hole. There two 

 more are taken. They would weigh nearly half a pound 

 each, and below this I got another. They are drawn up and 

 seized by the hand. I see a nice place ahead and I am mak- 

 ing my way to it. The swamp huckleberries and a low 

 growth of alders and laurel intermingle here. They seem 

 almost to be wedged in between each other, I think I am 

 getting along nicely among them, when my foot catches and 

 down I go. As 1 fall I think I hear something go tick at the 

 end of my rod. I am right, too. The ferrule of the third joint 

 is broken off. Keep out of alders, fellow fisherman. Let 

 boys go in there with their short, stiff rods and supple joints. 



Auother piece of line comes into play now, and the ap- 

 pearance of my friend's rod is considerably changed. While 

 I am making this splice I think the birds are silent. I do 

 not recollect of hearing even those two old cocks that had 

 been drumming all the morning. It seemed to me that a 

 good deal of the light of nature went out just at this time. 

 The repairs are made at last, however, and although my 

 heart is heavy and I have many misgivings as to my success, 

 I still kept on, saying to myself, "I am bound to have some 

 fish." And sure enough, but a few steps from the scene of 

 this disaster 1 took another trout and then another. They 

 were nice ones, too. Then there was a catching of the fine 

 again on the stream and its entanglement overhead, and I 

 was all the time fearing that the splicing would give way. 

 Two small fish had to be thrown back. For a little distance 

 now I have quite open fishing. It was good for my poor 

 rod that it was so. But this ceases again. I am coming to 

 a shallow rapid, I see, where the water spreads out and then 

 contracts below in quite a nice pool, and entirely surrounded 

 by tall alder bushes. From where I stand to the foot of the 

 rapids the alders cease and their place is supplied by trees of 

 a larger growth. Consequently it was not very difficult to 

 steer my crooked rod, so 1 soon made my way down. 



At the foot of the rapids 1 lost a nice fish. I could not 

 persuade him to try the bait a second time. I am standing 

 in the water now close beside a large birch and trying to get 

 my hook into the middle of the pool. Here the water runs 

 quite rapidly but it is still on the sides. With a straight rod 

 there would have been no difficulty in making the ca3t that 

 I wanted to, but now the matter is more perplexing First 

 the fine fastened itself on a black alder burr, then a twig 

 interfered with its running, then I touched the branches 

 overhead with the tip. The cast was made at last, however, 

 and I waited for the result. I did not have long to wait 

 either. The moment that I succeeded in getting the hook 

 where I wanted it I felt the fi-h. I knew as I struck that it 

 was a good fish too. But I did not hook him, and my line 

 brought up upon a dry twig only a few feet from where I 

 stood. But the hook is in again; and this time I have him. 

 And now I see the question is whether he shall be allowed to 

 run back under the alders or come up stream. I feel the 

 strain of a good sized fish, and I also feel mv splice slip to 

 one side on the rod. But I hold, and there is a flopping on 

 the top of the water below, while as yet I cannot see what is 

 making it. The fish is trying to shake himself free. I say 

 to myself, "He may break the rod, but not an inch ot hue 

 will I °ive him." This flopping and diving continued lor 

 some minutes, bending the rod until the Hp almost 

 touched the alders. 1 am just about congratulating 

 myself that he is going to give in when a sudden dart up 

 stream reminds me that he is not prepared for that yet rie 

 pauses about six feet from where I stand, just at the foot ot 

 the rapids. I can see his whole length and the bright spots 

 upon his side. He is a good twelve inches long and as 

 plump and well formed as a trout could be, and I hsve the 

 satisfaction of knowing that he is well hooked. Now he 

 croee down stream again with a rush and I feel my splicing 

 slip again But it holds, and again there is a flopping on the 

 top of the water. He is getting tired, though His _ strug- 

 gles are not what they were at first. What he objects to 

 most is my holding his nose out of the water. And 1 say to 

 myself, "It is a shame to treat such a game fish in such a 

 cruel manner." No doubt many a fisherman has felt the 

 same compassion lor his victim, and even regretted while he 



