Oct. 19, 1895.] 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



3 33 



up alongside the boat paddled to the bank and took the 

 fish out. The harpoon had gone deep into the back of the 

 fish and the wonder to me is that it had not killed him 

 sooner than it did. This fish must have weighed 35 or 

 401bs. ; it was over 3ft. long and looked to me to be 12in. 

 thick. Uncle Martin repeated this operation until he had 

 three of these monsters lying out on the bank. I asked 

 him what on earth he was going to do with them, and he 

 said that he was fishing for money jigw, that "ketching 

 pierch" was mostly for fun. I told him not to kill more 

 than he could carry home and he said that he wouldn't. 

 He said now fie would show me some fishing right: "That 

 he only ketched pierch with me jest to amuse me and let 

 me have a good time and see all the sights." He said 

 "that the river was full of the finest black bass that I ever 

 seed and he was going to let me haul in a few." 



He went to bis saddle, and taking out a long cotton 

 picking bag that had been tied behind him on the trip 

 out, brought out a 10ft. minnow seine. It was a home- 

 made affair, but as good and as strong as any that ever 

 came out of a sportsman's supply store. I now began to 

 open my eyes, and to realize that I had been laughing at 

 one of the most expert fishermen that I have ever had the 

 good fortune to meet. Old Uncle Martin's methods were 

 crude, but he got there just the same. He is what I 

 would call a "pot-hunter or pOt-fisherman," as he always 

 hunted, just as he fished, for meat and not for sport or glory. 



The following February, when the swamp overflowed 

 and we hunted ducks together in his boat, he would 

 swear like a Turk because I insisted on scaring the ducks 

 and shooting them on the wing. He would say, "What 

 on 'arth is the sense of killin' one duck a flyin' when you 

 could shoot into the bunch a sittin' and git a dozen at a 

 shoot?" Old Uncle Martin could not hit them "a flyin'," 

 as he expressed it, and he wanted ducks and not sport. 



Well, we got out our trout lines and I took that wonder- 

 ful "piece of tin," as Uncle Martin called my spoon, and 

 got into the boat. He paddled us down the river for 

 about a mile and then ran the boat up into a small lagoon 

 or bayou that emptied into the river. I saw now what 

 he was after, it was live minnows. We scrambled out of 

 the boat right into the water and commenced dragging 

 the seine. I did not say anything, but was waiting to see 

 how he was going to preserve his minnows without any 

 minnow pails. 1 did not have to wait long. After one or 

 two unsuccessful hauls and after we got the water muddy 

 we caught a seine full of fine large ones. Uncle Martin 

 said not a word, just dragged the seine up to the side of 

 the boat and diving into that wonderful cotton bag 

 brought out a common gunny sack. I "tumbled" to his 

 plan in a minute, and thought to myself what a fool I am. 

 This old backwoodsman will teach me a few things if I 

 only watch and keep my mouth shut. He put the min- 

 nows in the sack, and fastening the top of the sack to the 

 side of the boat by means of two nails that were already 

 there, simply dropped the sack into the water. One or 

 two more hauls gave us all the minnows we wanted, and 

 rolling up the seine and scrambling back into the boat he 

 paddled out into the river. Now the fun began, or rather 

 the procuring of fish; as I never could see much fun in 

 fishing with a hand line. 



Uncle Martin had a ponderous homemade hook and 

 cord that resembled a plow line more than a fishing line. 

 I asked him why he had it so large and he replied "that 

 he made it big so the big fish could not break it and so 

 the letle ones could not pester him afoolin' with it." His 

 logic was good from his standpoint, but how I did long 

 for my split-bamboo rod so I could play my fish and run 

 out the 200yds. of platted enameled silk line that I had 

 provided myself with. More than once I had my hands 

 burned trying to play a fish with that fine line. It 

 seemed like a red hot wire when it was running through 

 my fingers, However, I managed to bring several large 

 ones up to the boat side, and old Uncle Martin would 

 grab them in his iron claws and stuff them into his cotton 

 bag. Every time a big bass went into that bag I think he 

 saw two bits shining in front of his eyes. I enjoyed the 

 sport hugely for a while, but finally it got monotonous, 

 and especially as my hands were getting sore from the 

 line. I would not have broken that line for twice its 

 value, for I could not replace it so far from civilization, 

 and I had made up my mind to come back to that place 

 many more times and bring my split-bamboo along. 

 What fun I had in store for myself playing those big fellows. 



After capturing probably a half dozen nice bass and 

 throwing back as many more smaller ones, I wound up 

 my line and watched Uncle Martin. As soon as I began 

 to wind my line on the spool he protested. Said "he did 

 not fetch me out thar fur nuthin', an' he wanted me to 

 help him ketch his sack full." I told him that he would 

 have to excuse me, as my hands were sore and I had 

 enough. "Wal, I'll ketch 'em myself then," was his re- 

 ply. And "ketch 'em" he did. The sweat was rolling off 

 of him, as it was now past mid-day and pretty hot; but he 

 kept at it. Finally, after he had "ketched" his sack 

 nearly full he " 'lowed" that he was hungry, and that he 

 was ready to quit. I don't call Uncle Martin's methods 

 sport. The novelty of the whole business interested me, 

 and as the Mississippi River overflows Snake River every 

 year or two and puts thousands of fish back there for 

 every one he catches out, I guess there is no complaint to 

 make. The old man was simply using what nature had 

 supplied him in abundance, and really destroyed nothing. 

 And as he expressed it, "He did not care a durn for sport; 

 he wanted meat, and meat brought money." 



We now paddled back to our starting point, and soon 

 had a fire and cooked some of the fish and ate some of 

 the cornbread and onions, which the old man had brought 

 along. We had two big sacks full of fish of all kinds; so, 

 after reaching his house, I selected about 201bs. of the 

 nicest ones for my own use and Uncle Martin made a bee 

 line for the railroad camp to sell the rest. He told me 

 afterward that he got over $8 for that day's catch. The 

 last thing he said to me was: "Now, Wingfield. I tuck 

 an' showed you my fishing place 'cause I like you; but if 

 you show the place to any of them railroad hands, you 

 need never to come arter me to go with you anywhar 

 ag'in." You may bet your last shilling that I never gave 

 his place away, although the foremen on the works heard 

 about my catching bo many fish, and dogged at me for 

 six months to show them where it was. Uncle Martin 

 had about twenty good bear hounds yelping around his 

 yard, and I knew that I was dead sure to wane to go 

 hunting with Uncle Martin as soon as frost came; so I 

 kept his secret locked in the innermost recesses of my 

 soul and breathed it to no living man. 



Chattanooga, Tennessee. A. B. WlNGFIELD. 



EARLYIDAYS (IN THE CONNECTICUT 

 BACKWOODS.I . jgk^Z 



Once more as in old days I seem to ramble 

 ■ In the sweet winding ways among the trees. 

 Deep are the shades on flower and bramble, 

 And dreamy the air with the drone of the bees. 



While arranging my back numbers of Forest and 

 Stream, now packed away, but not forgotten, I again 

 enjoyed the charming stories of boyish joys and sorrows 

 recorded in the boyhood number of Jan." 7, 1892; and the 

 varied experience portrayed in that excellent issue brought 

 back many recollections of early days, when as a lad of 

 12 I lived on the shores of beautiful Lake Pocotopaug, 

 a placid sheet of pure cold water, hemmed in on the north 

 by the forest primeval, while on the south shore nestled 

 Easthampton, the quiet little hamlet of my birth. The 

 lake, about twelve miles in circumference and nearly 

 circular in shape, was fed mostly by springs gushing forth 

 from the sandy bottom, and the limpid waters abounded 

 with the gamy bass and voracious pickerel and the usual 

 attendant small fry-perch, roach and dace. In the small 

 coves that indented the sandy shores were Buckers of 

 prodigious size, which in the early spring we used to spear 

 by the light of birchbark torches; and very good eating 

 they were till the warmer weather rendered their flesh 

 soft, muddy and unfit for use. Great lusty fellows were 

 the pickerel and bass. Well do I remember the day father 

 and I went to the little inlet and father took a pickerel of 

 5lbs. 4oz. weight, and how I viewed him with feelings 

 akin to awe as the great gaping jaws and staring eyes 

 emerged from the lake. 



Pickerel of 3 to 51bs. were frequently captured both by 

 skittering among the lilypads with rod and line and by 

 trolling. But most of the large ones were taken by a 

 method I have not seen in vogue elsewhere. A small tree 

 was selected and taken out to a chosen spot in the lake, 

 usually near shoi^e; there weighted with stones it was 

 Bunk in water of sufficient depth to cover the spreading 

 branches, and a landmark was taken to locate the tree 

 for future visits. In a few days the fish became accus- 

 tomed to the new object and in accordance with their 

 well-known propensity to lurk in the shadows of brush, 

 logs and the like, settled in the shades of the new retreat. 

 Then the fisherman equipped with a stiff pole (pole, mind 

 you) pulled out and quietly anchored at the bush; and the 

 hook, baited with a strip of fish or a dead minnow, was 

 lowered nearly to the bottom, then by a series of quick 

 short jerks raised to the surface. In response a dark 

 object would dart from 'neath the submerged branches, a 

 pair of hungry jaws would close on the minnow; a glimpse 

 of mottled green and yellow sides, a tremendous surge on 

 the line and the battle royal was on. Every resident 

 fisherman planted several of these trees, and I have seen 

 four to six pickerel taken from one tree at a single visit. 



And then what sport we did have in the winter months 

 fishing through the ice with the old-fashioned tilt-up. 

 We had to hustle, with a score of these set and the fish 

 biting fast. It really seemed as though the supply of 

 pickerel was inexhaustible. 



The bass fishing was mostly done with trolling line and 

 spoon (home made). The bass ran from 21bs. to 41bs., and 

 occasionally larger. While perch fishing at Markham's 

 Point my brother Add captured one of an even 51bs., and 

 he was not tortured by any unnecessary fancy work 

 either, but yanked ashore in quick time with no material 

 damage to the tackle, which for size and strength was 

 simply astonishing. With proper handling these bass 

 must have made gamy fighters, but we knew little of the 

 ethics of angling, and were content to "haul" them out iu 

 our own way. At the north shore of the lake it was shal- 

 low and reed-grown. It was a favorite feeding ground for 

 wild ducks, and occasionally a mallard helped to vary our 

 simple bill of fare. 



My brother (who was two years my senior) and I spent 

 most of our time on the lake, for we came of fishing stock 

 and were passionately fond of the gentle art. After a 

 time we moved back into the wilderness and bade adieu 

 to the dear old lake. This was the woodsman's ideal 

 home. The roomy old gable-roofed house was situated 

 on a small cleared eminence sloping down to an old 

 orchard in the rear, and beyond and on all Bides were 

 woods and woods — 



The pines and spreading grand old oaks, 

 Whose branches span the laughing brooks. 



The nearly interminable growth was broken here and 

 there only by those depressions in the heavy foliage indi- 

 cating the smaller growth that covered the banks of the 

 numerous woodland streams intersecting the country. 

 These dashing, tumbling streams were the natural 

 homes of the speckled trout; and along the banks 

 the grapevine and wild clematis ran riot among 

 the spice bush and alders, and the damp rich fern- 

 clad soil was the favorite feeding ground of countless 

 woodcock; the whole region was rich in game; the grand 

 old woods teemed with squirrels and wild pigeons; the 

 swamps and open copses were the homes of partridge and 

 rabbit; and along the woodland stream were mink, musk- 

 rats and an occasional otter. Trout was a common dish 

 on our table. All this was thirty years ago and in the 

 Land of Wooden Nutmegs. Ah! little do the sportsmen 

 of these days of depleted game covers and tenantless 

 streams realize the pleasures of those early days. 



My brother and I soon accustomed ourselves to our new 

 surroundings, and it being in early autumn, 



When free October ranged its sylvan ways, 



we soon filled the covers and runways with snares and 

 traps; and what strings of game we took out of the 

 woods. Little did we realize we were thus employing 

 the very means that have caused a dearth of game, the 

 absence of which I have many times since had occasion 

 to regret. But that was before these enlightened days of 

 Forest and Stream; and in those earlier days the woods- 

 man was compelled to rely mainly upon the products of 

 nature and hiB own resources to gain a living. And then 

 we were boys, with a boy's neglect of the future. 



A notable event occurred in my maiden shot with the 

 gun — an event I long had cause to remember. Father 

 owned by inheritance the traditional old long-barreled 

 musket, which in his hands proved a terror to the foxes 

 and squirrels of that region. The old arm was an object 

 of veneration to us boys; but at last the natural desire to 

 become a mighty hunter so far overcame this feeling that 

 I resolved at all risks to try the old gun. Well knowing 

 that my parents would never consent, I watched my 



chance. One fateful day I crept in, and taking down 

 the old gun from the pegs hurried to the old orchard in a 

 whirl of excitement. The old saying that "devil helps his 

 own" was soon verified; for on the top branch of an old 

 button wood sat a golden- winged woodpecker as if for my 

 special benefit. Not content to stand cn terra jirma, but 

 thinking to get nearer, I clambered upon the old wall and 

 with a supreme effort raised the heavy piece to my 

 shoulder, shut both eyes and pressed the trigger. I have 

 thought that that gun was loaded for elephants; for an 

 explosion followed that seemed to rend the earth; and I 

 have a dim recollection of turning sundry flip-fiaDS 

 through the unresisting air, while the old cannon landed in 

 the grass 10ft. away, and a cloud of feathers floated 

 quietly after the sole remains of the unlucky flicker. Re- 

 gaining my scattered senses, I took an inventory of 

 damages — a bloody nose, both elbows skinned, one 

 shoulder knocked out of plumb, and a long rent in the 

 most useful part of my trousers, completed" the list; and 

 picking up the cause of all this misery I sorrowfully 

 wended ray way homeward, well knowing that there 

 was a hereafter to come; and it came in due time, for I 

 soon met my maternal ancestor hurrying across the 

 orchard with white face and trembling voice. Hearing 

 the explosion, she had immediately missed the old gun 

 and sallied forth to find her dead offspring. Finding I 

 was not seriously injured, a revolution of feeling naturally 

 followed; and then, holy smoke t didn't I dance to the 

 music of the birch. 



We found a market for our game through the medium 

 of a traveling dentist, who, in addition to his business of 

 extracting teeth and fitting new ones, on each weekly 

 visit to those regions bought up all the surplus game from 

 the scattered inhabitants and shipped it to a New York 

 house at an immense profit to himself. He traveled with 

 a stout horse and roomy wagon and usually came out of 

 the woods with a miscellaneous collection of game. It 

 made no difference if some of it was a trifle old, it sold 

 just the same. And what ridiculous prices he gave us for 

 all this— six cents for squirrels, eight cents for rabbits, ten 

 cents for woodcock, five cents for pigeons and forty cents 

 a pair for good plump partridges. I have since thought 

 he muBt eventually have become a millionaire; for, of 

 course, his profits were large at these prices. But the 

 small amounts we received were our salvation through 

 the winter months. 



We naturally found ample opportunity to study the 

 habits of our furred and feathered neighbors, and had 

 many caged pets. One spring we attempted to raise a 

 brood of partridge chicks, but lamentably failed. While 

 trouting one fine May morning we came suddenly upon a 

 bevy of these downy little chaps under the guardianship 

 of the mother bird, who went through the customary 

 broken wing performance and other cunning tricks they 

 know so well, to entice us from the vicinity. A lively 

 scramble followed, which ended in the capture of eight of 

 the little beauties. We took them home and placed them 

 in a slat inclosure, attached to a snug little coop, where 

 they thrived and grew on a diet of bugs, worms and in- 

 sects, until one unlucky day father gave them warm corn 

 meal dough. This proved a mistake, for on the morrow 

 we found the little innocents all dead, their crops swollen 

 to an enormous size, which fact supported our theory that 

 the warm dough had baked in that organ and burst the 

 tissues. Soon after this we captured several young red 

 squirrels, and caged and fed them; but as the pugnacious 

 little rascals grew up they clawed and bit one another, till 

 for humanity's sake we released them, and they wan- 

 dered off a maimed and mangy lot. 



Our traps (the old style figure 4) set for fur-bearing ani- 

 mals yielded well, and father went monthly to the village 

 to dispose of his skins. More especially was this branch 

 of the business under his charge ; and anything that ' 'wore 

 hair" was welcome if only salable. His pack usually 

 consisted of muskrat, mink, fox and rabbit skins, and on 

 rare occasions an otter's valuable pelt. He disposed of the 

 lot to Capt. Buell at prices about on a par with the 

 dentist's prices for game. Capt. Buell marketed his furs 

 in the adjoining city of Hartford, and as he was a veteran 

 sportsman and a good judge of the article, the prices were 

 satisfactory to himself, no doubt. The Captain kept the 

 only place in the village for the accommodation of the 

 chance hunter or angler, and posed as the village oracle 

 on all matters pertaining to the craft; but, like all man- 

 kind, he was not averse to making a penny, honest or 

 otherwise, at the expense of his neighbors. 



One autumn, when the foliage donned the usual rich 

 colors, and the clear, frosty mornings and gray squirrel's 

 fretful bark were suggestive of the hunt, then the new 

 gun came, a double-barreled 12-bore, fancy for those days, 

 with shiny stock; and the old musket was relegated to 

 the garret. Father said the old gun was too heavy for 

 him in his declining years, but we boys always surmised 

 that the old gentleman had formed a wholesome dread 

 of the butt end of the old cannon, which had developed 

 a tendency to kick like an army mule (as I well knew). 

 Of course we youngsters were duly cautioned not to 

 "tetch that air gun," which admonition only served to 

 convince us that our special mission on earth was to test 

 its merits as soon as possible. This feeling "grew on us" 

 till one morning we slyly secured the weapon and hurried 

 to the woods. As we passed along a red squirrel chattered 

 defiance at us from his perch on a broken limb projecting 

 from a large chestnut. Add, who carried the gun, blazed 

 away at the rodent, which dropped end over end into a 

 stone heap beneath the tree. It was his death wound, 

 but as we rushed up he was still feebly struggling among 

 the stones, and, forgetful of all else but his possible 

 escape, Add clubbed the gun and hammered the life out 

 of him. As the poor squirrel kicked his last and the ex- 

 citement was over, we stood aghast at the result. That 

 was a sick-looking gun stock; all bruised and battered it 

 presented a sorry sight, and the hunt terminated right 

 there. As we sneaked home we planned to smuggle the 

 gun in and trust to circumstances to get out of the scrape. 

 But retribution was swift and sure, for the paternal hea < I 

 of the household "nailed" us as we left the woods. A 

 few pointed remarks, a hurried inspection of the wrecks! 

 gun, and — well, we will omit the grand finale, and only 

 say that Add as the chief culprit (much to my relief) s -it 

 on the extreme edge of his chair for some time after 

 Well, the youth of those days were essentially the satnn 

 as at the present time, and these little episodes were soon 

 forgotten or else accepted as one of the elements neces- 

 sary to a boy's early education, and this instance was the 

 more readily overlooked by Add, as it proved the princi- 

 pal factor to our future happiness; for, being convinced 



