434 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



f June 9, 1887. 



THE OLD BAMBOO. 



WITH APOLOGUES TO THE AUTHOR OP "THE OLD CANOE." 



OLD Bear Mountain's sides are gray and stcop, 

 And Hudson's waters flow dark and deep. 

 The smoke from ray pipe with its rich perfume 

 Scents every part of my quaint old room, 

 Where rods and rifles of many a make 

 Stand almost as thick as canes in a hrako. 

 Where the sunshine shimmers the whole day through 

 There stands in one corner the old bamboo. 



The tip is unbroken, the guide rings still there, 

 Though the old linen cover lacks sadly repair; 

 The joints and the ferrules are dented and worn 

 With the brunt of the battles the old rod has borne. 

 But still the old warrior, trusty as steel, 

 Is ready for duty from tip point to reel, 

 As fit for the fight as when first it was new, 

 My cherished tried comrade, the old bamboo. 



Oh! many a time with my rod in my hand 



Have I strolled along the pebbly strand, 



Down many a stream where the alders grew thick, 



And the gnats and the punkies bit like Old Nick; 



And laughed as I tossed the gaudy fly, 



To see how the trout were deluded thereby. 



As I waded out where it deeper grew, 



While I deftly handled the old bamboo. 



The waters I fished, they flow there still; 



The gnats and the punkies they bite with a will; 



But of alders and fish every stream is bereft, 



And who goes for trout will get sadly left. 



The woodcock are gone and the merry quail 



No longer whistles "Bob White" on the rail; 



You may hunt, you may fish the whole day through, 



You'll need not your gun nor the old bamboo. 



So now as I muse in my old arm chair, 

 And glance at my phiz in the mirror up there, 

 The face that I see has much graver grown, 

 Though my laugh will preserve its ancient tone, 

 And the hand that lent the gay fly wings, 

 No longer can pick on the banjo strings, 

 Nor "whoop her up" as I used to do. 

 When first I handled the old bamboo. 



So the dear old rod does my youth renew, 

 Those happy days and that merry crew, 

 And I think with a sigh, can it really be 

 That I was that youngster so joyous and free? 

 Is it only a dream, a fanciful tale. 

 Of rod and rifle, of trout and of quail? 

 And wonder, dear reader, "between me and you, 

 Shall I fish once again with the old bamboo. 



Capt. Clayton. 



THE BIG PIKE. 



LOOKING back through the vista of recent years, and 

 calling up to memory long tramps over hill and 

 forest, camp-fires and snowy canvas along the Blue 

 Juniata, adventures with canoe and paddle on the wind- 

 ing branches of the broad Susquehanna, and weeks witli 

 rod and gun along the forest-bordered Yellow Breeches 

 andCenodoguinet; mentally reviewing all these memories 

 of the past, fraught with pictures of lake and river, moun- 

 tain and woodland, and the familiar faces of old friends, 

 my thoughts linger with special interest on the recollec- 

 tions which cluster round the month we spent at Long 

 Pond. Sometimes I sit with closed eyes and bring up the 

 whole scene before me again with such accuracy that I 

 am deceived myself, and sit there dreaming, until sud- 

 denly I wake with a bitter feeling of disappointment. 



There is the pond before me, somber and gray in the 

 early dawn, with feathery clouds of mist rolling lightly 

 over the surface; and the opposite hills, lofty and fir- 

 crowned, mirrored to perfection in the deep and silent 

 depths. Then the sun peeps over the mountain top, and 

 in an instant the golden light scatters the mist, penetrat- 

 ing all the dim and shadowy nooks, bringing into bold 

 relief each rock and tree, and glitters and sparkles like 

 ten thousand diamonds on the ever-changing water. A 

 flock of ducks rise with a startled cry and skim over the 

 surface; red-headed woodpeckers are thundering on the 

 rotten limbs; over in the swamp among the gum trees 

 the flickers sound their shrill whistles; a can-ion crow 

 pursued by hosts of smaller birds, utters cries of distress 

 as he flies higher and higher over the pond; far up in the 

 trees, screened by densest foliage, the squirrels are chat- 

 tering. All the world of nature is wide awake. Over on 

 that grassy knoll under the pine trees rises a column of 

 smoke; the tent flaps are thrown wide open, and a pro- 

 cession of blanketed forms stagger out and deposit their 

 many-colored burdens on the line stretched behind the 

 tent. 



All is activity. Some are cleaning fish, some watching 

 the fire, and one eager angler is already out on the pond 

 pulling toward the opposite shore with the scarlet and 

 silver spoon dancing in the wake of the boat. Now they 

 are grouped around the rude table. The coffee is steam- 

 ing and fragrant, the potatoes are brown and crisp, and 

 there come the fish, shedding rich odors and adding the 

 last touch to our already voracious appetites. And then 

 — But hold on! I am dreaming again and living over 

 only in memory those shadowy days that are past. 



On the morning that we reached' Long Pond and stood 

 gazing across the broad bosom we seemed to breathe in 

 with the pure motmtain air a sort of premonition that we 

 were to have some stirring times before we broke up 

 camp. That premonition was to a great extent fidfilled. 

 The fishing in Long Pond was very good. Our boating 

 facilities, however, were limited. Forster had brought 

 his canvas canoe and down in front of camp lay the half 

 sunken hulk of an old tub that had probably helped to 

 land its own weight in fish many, many times over. It 

 had been repaired so often that I firmly believe not a 

 plank of the original boat still remained. Weeds grew 

 out of the cracks and the bottom was so thickly impreg- 

 nated with soil that a youg tree had taken root in one end 

 and bade fair some day to shelter with its shade the fisher 

 who eat on the seat beneath. But stern necessity knows 

 no law, so we mustered it into use and contrived by the 

 constant use of a bailer to navigate the pond. For want 

 of oars we used the primitive paddle and it was a grace- 

 ful sight to see the ancient boat under our muscular 

 efforts, clearing the waves like a sand barge. 



Our camp was beautifully located on a little eminence, 



and shaded by pine trees that perfumed the air with aro- 

 matic odors and carpeted the ground with their crisp 

 brown needles. Our tent looked straight across the pond, 

 and through the flaps the first rays of the sun glared in 

 and never failed to wake those of us who neglected to 

 turn out at the first call. And then we had a spring, of 

 course — a sparkling, ice-cold stream, that flowed out of a 

 circular basin, girt around by huge granite rocks and a 

 massive pine tree that had twisted its gnarled roots in and 

 out among the stones till it resembled a veritable Laocoon. 

 We did a great deal of fishing. We hunted a little and 

 made a few sketches. 



In the mornings we used to paddle up and down on the 

 pond, ricochetting our spoons over the surface, getting 

 numerous strikes and frequently landing a nice pike. 

 Forster trolled with great success in his canoe. He always 

 went out in his bare feet until one morning, catching a 

 good-sized pike, he threw it carelessly into the cockpit, 

 where it floundered and thumped against the canvas sides 

 of its prison. And then absent-mindedly straightening 

 his cramped legs, Forster thrust his toes into the spacious 

 mouth, and the triangular teeth and square jaws closed 

 on them with a vicious snap. He yelled lustily, and 

 thrown off his guard, another fish seized the hook and 

 jerked the rod off the canoe. We paddled to his assist- 

 ance, and then joined in the chase after the rod which 

 was shooting rapidly toward the upper end of the pond, 

 and was finally recovered minus spoon and fish. After 

 that Forster wore shoes. 



When we got tired of trolling we anchored our boat in 

 a deep hole under the shady side of the mountain, and 

 using a float and worms, landed yellow-belhed catfish, 

 and sometimes a goggle-eyed sunfish, with bristling spine 

 and rainbow-hued scales. We caught no very large pike, 

 and concluded that the pond didn't hold any big ones. 

 That was a rash and hasty conclusion. 



One morning we went up half a mile through the 

 woods to visit our one neighbor, and procure some fruit 

 from his well-stocked orchard. He was an old settler 

 whose father had lived there before him , and had built 

 the abandoned log cabin which still stood in ruins near 

 the present house. He narrated wonderful stories of the 

 times when the savage painted in yellow and red ochre, 

 whooped and yelled along the shores of the pond, and de- 

 scribed in a thrilling manner numerous adventures with 

 the crafty panthers and ravenous bears that used to roam 

 in all their pristine savageness through the pine woods 

 and over the mountains. That morning we found him 

 standing down by the shore of the pond, and watching 

 impatiently a flock of young ducks that were disporting 

 themselves some distance out from shore. "What's the 

 matter, Goliah ? " we asked. His huge stature and mus- 

 cular limbs had gained for him that nickname. He 

 turned round. "Hullo! Glad to see you." Why, dern 

 my luck, I can't do nothin' with them ducks. They're half 

 gone now, and I'll hev to build a pen for 'em, or I'll soon 

 have none. Why, only a week ago there was fifteen, 

 and now dern it, there goes another. Look out there. 

 See that," 



We glanced out on the pond just in time to see some- 

 thing dark disappear under water. A heavy wave was 

 spreading shoreward. A moment before I had counted 

 nine ducks. I now saw but eight half swimming, half 

 flying with frightened quacks toward shore. 



Goliah was furious. "Dern that critter. I used to 

 think it was a mink or a muskrat, but blamed if I don't 

 biieve it's a fish; one of them big pike, I'll bet." 



"Are there any big pike in here?" I asked eagerly. 



"Waal, yes, there's a good many slappin' big fish in 

 here, but it's tarnation hard to ketch 'em. But that fish 

 out here, he's bold and he'd jump at a spoon. See that 

 old stump stickin' out of water? Well, that fish is always 

 around there some place; there when he ain't eatin' duck; 

 he ketches young fish in among the lily pads. Try to 

 ketch him and I'll give you the free use of my orchard 

 long as you're here. Want some apples, do you? Well, 

 go up and help yourselves while I pen these young ducks 

 up." 



We got our apples and started back to camp resolved 

 to capture that big pike. We decided that our largest 

 and brightest spoon with a young minnow fastened on 

 the barb would be the most tempting bait. Minnows 

 were scarce around camp, so that afternoon we paddled 

 up the pond some distance to the mouth of a small brook, 

 where we thought we might get some. Forster accom- 

 panied us in his canoe and landed a couple of small pike 

 on the way up. We caught a good many bait fish, just 

 the size we wanted. The first one we caught Forster 

 claimed and put it on his spoon. He trolled round in 

 front of us for a while without success, and having filled 

 our box, we were about starting for camp when Forster 

 cried excitedly, "I've got him! I've got him." 



He was a few yards out from shore, right among the 

 lily pads, and, although he was using the paddle vigor- 

 ously, the canoe seemed to be stationary. Then we saw 

 a splash in the water, and Forster headed the canoe 

 around as the fish started for the open pond. He got free 

 of the lily pads and into clear water, and then dropping 

 the paddle he seized the rod. The fish was straight out 

 from the stern now and the rod was bending dangerously. 

 Then came a flank movement, and the strain was pulling 

 the canoe sideways. Suddenly the line slackened. "Look 

 out," we shouted, "he's coming toward you." The fish 

 must have darted under the canoe, for the line suddenly 

 tightened, the tip of the rod seemed to be trying to curve 

 around the bottom, and Forster, taken unawares, leaned 

 to one side, and in an instant the canoe upset and Forster 

 and the rod plunged in headforemost and disappeared. 

 He came up in a moment, gasping and spitting. We were 

 soon on the spot and dragged him, dripping wet, into the 

 boat. We righted the canoe and recovered the rod in 

 among the water lilies. The line was tangled and twisted 

 among the tough stems, and was broken off near the hook. 



" I tell you what, fellows, that was a big fish," said 

 Forster. " Why I believe he could have pulled that 

 canoe all over the pond. I'll have another try for him," 

 We advised him to stop fishing out of his canoe but he 

 was obstinate, and continued to troll around the pond. 

 But that very evening while paddling backward a hidden 

 snag brought him to a stop, and made a six inch rip in 

 the canvas. We rescued him for about the fifth time and 

 after that the canoe for want of cement remained on 

 shore, and was finally mustered into service as a camp 

 table. The double paddle was bisected, and made to do 

 duty on our ancient boat. 



We had intended to have a trial atGoliah's big pike the 

 next day, but when we got to camp with our bait Lester 



greeted us with a marvelous tale of a trout stream back 

 among the hills, and produced as evidence a young 

 mountaineer who had strayed across our camp. He of- 

 fered to guide us to the place the next day. " Only two 

 miles away" he said it was, "and just swarming with fish." 



He accepted our invitation to spend the night, and as 

 our accommodations were limited we quartered him in 

 Forster's canoe. 



I think his conscience must have troubled him, for he 

 kicked out the end in his sleep, and roused Forster's wrath 

 to such an extent that he refused to accompany us. 



We started at daybreak and traveled for two hours 

 through forest and swamp, over rocks and heaps of loose 

 stones and thickets of tangled undergrowth. It was six 

 miles if it was a yard, but our guide remarked pleasantly, 

 "That he guessed they measured it differently down 

 where we came from." We reached the place at last. 

 The stream was a beauty, and ran through a deep gorge 

 so narrow that the mountains almost touched above us. It 

 was one continual succession of sparkling little water- 

 falls and deep brown pools, so densely shaded that not 

 the faintest glimmer of the sky touched their surf ace. 

 We fished for hours, landing a good many beautiful trout, 

 till the sun warned us that it was time to start. Our 

 guide accompanied us part way, and then pointing out a 

 path that he said would take us to camp by a short cut, 

 disappeared in the thicket. We took the path, and after 

 walking for miles it seemed to us we came out on the 

 shore of the pond. 



But it was the wrong shore. We were just opposite 

 camp. We yelled and howled and lit a signal fire, and 

 waved our coats and hats, but to no purpose. No wel- 

 come boat shot out toward us, though we could see the 

 fellows moving around camp. It was imperative, so we 

 tramped a weary mile round the pond through brambles 

 and cranberry bog, and finally came into camp muddy 

 and footsore. Forster greeted us eagerly, "Hullo, glad 

 you got back. There are a lot of tramps right across the 

 pond. They've been yelling at us for half an hour, and 

 I'll bet they'll attack us to-night. They are hid some 

 place in the bushes now." We smiled sadly. Should we 

 give ourselves away? We were silent, but we had our 

 revenge all the same, for Forster spent the night at the 

 tent door waiting with a loaded gun for the tramps who 

 never came. 



But to return to the pike. He appeared before us, that 

 night in every conceivable form. He danced over the 

 bed clothes, took wings and hovered above our heads; he 

 struggled with a huge hook hanging from his jaw, and 

 finally appeared in the act of swallowing a plump young 

 duck, whose vociferous quackings woke us up. It was 6 

 o'clock. And here let it be recorded for the benefit of 

 supernatural-minded people that, according to Goliah's 

 account, that identical pike was actually masticating the 

 ninth duck at the same time that he took that role in our 

 dreams. 



Our bait fish were all dead, so we had to get a fresh 

 supply. Then a flock of ducks tempted us, and we maneu- 

 vered round after them until noon; but about 2 o'clock 

 Lester, Forster and I, with tackle and bait, started up the 

 pond. Half an hour's steady paddling brought us to the 

 upper end, where we exchanged our half-sunken craft 

 for a somewhat tighter and less weighty boat, belonging 

 to Goliah. The remainder of the brood of ducks were 

 now safe behind a wooden paling, and could only look 

 mournfully out on the pond and express their disapproval 

 with vigorous and frequent quacks. 



"You see I've got 'em shut up now," said Goliah, "an' 

 as that critter ain't had no duck since morn in' he'll be 

 just ready for supper now. And mind," he called after 

 us as we shoved off from shore, "don't ye come back 

 without him." 



We reached deep water and first threw in our lines 

 baited with minnows. But we got no bites, and pulled in 

 nothing but water-soaked twigs and weeds that twined 

 round our bait till they looked like water snakes with 

 long green tails. The sun became unendurable, so we 

 put on our spoons and trolled for a while. Back and for- 

 ward we went past the old sunken tree, skimming over 

 beds of fragrant lilies, the barbed hooks ruthlessly tear- 

 ing apart the pretty white petals, and our reels singing a 

 merry tune as the hooks clung for an instant to some 

 tough stem or hard-fibred leaf. We traversed every foot 

 of space in that corner of the pond, but in vain. 



The pike was probably taking a siesta somewhere down 

 among the lily roots or was in some lonely secluded 

 corner basking languidly as is the wont of his tribe in the 

 warm rays of the sun on the surface of the water. So 

 we pulled inshore and refreshed ourselves, body and soul, 

 with quart cups of iced milk, sitting in the chilly atmos- 

 phere of Goliah's spring house and listening to some of 

 his rafting adventures, for he had handled the rudder on 

 many a voyage down the Susquehanna and had twice 

 narrowly escaped with his life, once at Naticoke, and 

 once at old Mehoopany dam, now only a few shapeless 

 piles of dingy gray stones and rotted timbers. But the 

 sun was sheering off toward the west and its vertical raj's 

 had lost their intensity, so we girted ourselves anew for 

 the fray, and with fresh hopes pushed off from shore. 

 Once more we baited with minnows and dropped our 

 lines in the water. Then we trolled again, lazily resting 

 our rods on the stern and watching the spoons rippling in 

 the shadowy wake of the boat. 



Lester got a strike, and we were all excitement until he 

 landed a wretched little 12in. fish. "Cut him open," 

 suggested Forster, "and see if he has any young ducks 

 inside of him." This was met with chilling contempt. 

 We fished for a while in silence, while the sun crept 

 lower and lower, and our shadows lengthened visibly on 

 the fast darkening water. 



Far, far away over the hills came faintly the sound of 

 a distant farmhouse bell and the long-drawn, mournful 

 howl of a dog in harsh contrast to the melodious tinkle. 

 The mournful cry of a whippoorwill echoed from the 

 thickets across the pond, and a moor hen, startled by 

 something unseen, rose with a shrill cry and flew over our 

 heads. It was supper time and we were getting hungry. 

 Again we made the circuit, and crossed and recrossed the 

 pond.- Not a strike rewarded us, 



"This is getting tiresome," said Lester. "It's no use to 

 try for that fish. He has been brought up on duck, and 

 he's not going to lower his dignity to take a painted piece 

 of brass or a young minnow. I propose a halt." 



"Yes, let's go to supper," chimed in Forster. 



"Well, now see here," said I. "I'm hungry, too, but 

 row up to that clump of bushes there at the end of the 

 pond, and rest a moment. Then row on down rather 



