88 



Rocky Mountan Sportsmen's Association.— Denver, 

 Col. — The following circular has boon pent out to club 

 secretaries: "With the object of making the annual 

 meeting of our Association, which will be held on the 

 evening of June 17 next, following the first day's tour- 

 ney, especially interesting, papers will be read in the 

 order of new business on the following topics, each paper 

 to consist of about one thousand words: 'Trap-Shooting: 

 Past, Present and Future,' 'The. Preservation of Game,' 

 'The Shotgun of Olden Times," 'The Preservation of Fish,' 

 'Our Friend, the Dog,' 'Shall We Tax the Gun.' Please 

 present this matter to your club and invite them to make 

 any suggestion they wish as to the addition of new topics 

 or alteration of such topics as appear above; also, to sug- 

 gest names of any members of the Association who are 

 particularly qualified to prepare an interesting paper on 

 any of the above subjects. Please advise as early as pos- 

 sible, so that ample time can be allowed for preparation 

 of papers. — W. E. Ostrander, Acting Secretary, No. 10 

 Windsor Block. By order of C. M. Hampson, Presi- 

 dent." 



Sunday Shooting.— New York, Feb. 14. — Editor For- 

 est and Stream: I see in the last issue of Forest and 

 Stream that the Massachusetts Legislature are consider- 

 ing a bill to prevent persons hunting game on Sunday. 

 I want to express my views on the subject, for there are 

 plenty of young men like myself who have to work all 

 the week, and Lord's day is the only day when we can 

 have a little recreation; and if this is prohibited what 

 can we do to enjoy ourselves? We cannot enjoy field 

 sports like our richer brothers if this takes effect. And 

 I think there will be plenty of ruffianism grow out of it, 

 for we will have nothing else to do but hang around 

 corners all day. If some of those gentlemen would think 

 about this, I am sure they would do something to alter 

 the present state of affairs. Now let me hear some one 

 else's views on the subject. — T. M. 



Those Special Numbers. — A Washington correspond- 

 ent who has been reading the Forest and Stream for 

 fifteen years and should be a good judge, writes of our 

 Christmas and Florida numbers: ''I never saw better 

 numbers of any publication in their special line than 

 those, and I enjoyed them from cover to cover." 



Waxer Color Hunting Scenes.— Mr. J. S. Bradley, Jr., of Ko 

 1 Pine street, this city, has on exhibition three original water 

 colors by C. A, Zimmerman, the painter of the well known pic- 

 tures "The Tight .Shell" and "Double." Lovers of this artist's 

 work are invited to call and see them. — Adv. 



m m\d §iv#r fishing. 



ON THE NORTH SHORE.-IV, 



A THREE WEEKS 7 TROUTING TRIP ON THE NORTH RIVER 

 OF LAKE SUPERIOR. 



WE sought new grounds that morning, coasting along 

 a serrated shore that ran northward and which 

 displayed huge ranges of parti colored rock and a long 

 stretch of woodland that was sending forth the agreeable 

 health-giving odor of the balsam, fir and pine. The 

 rocks at times were smooth, then ragged and broken, 

 and again ran along so solid that not even a fern or a 

 flower could find a crevice to grow in. A deliciously 

 soft air with the skies all aglow and the tops of the trees 

 blushing in the early sun greeted us on every side, thus 

 creating just such condition of the elements that charm 

 the ardent devotee of the rod. Soon we came abreast 

 lovely Maple Island, whose shore presented a weather- 

 beaten aspect, the gnarled roots of many of the trees 

 being exposed, the result evidently of the time battling 

 waves. The beach, which was very irregular, appeared 

 to he covered with fragments of red porphyry and slabs of 

 dark red sandstone, many of which were" plainly ripple- 

 marked. It was dense in vegetation and timber, and 

 Joe said it was the scene of a sanguinary strife between 

 the Iroquois and the Chippewas ages ago, when the red 

 man was lord of the forest. 



We were now in the domain of the gamy trout, and 

 being eager for the sport, went to work with a will, 

 sending our flies in the most attractive places. I saw 

 but a few yards ahead of me a ledge of rocks in the clear 

 waters that I was confident harbored a golden fin. I 

 stopped casting until I reached the desired spot, and then 

 let my lures circle in the air and lightly fall on the edge 

 of the ripples that raced o'er the ledge. In an instant a 

 savage swirl broke the water where my dropper fell. I 

 responded to it with a gentle strike, and then he turned 

 tail and again sought concealment in his rocky retreat. 

 A shade of disappointment ran o'er my placid, face, while 

 Joe, the barbarian prophet, looked up and grinned. 

 Ned, who had witnessed the splash, exclaimed, "He 

 was a daisy !" and then relapsed into silence. In a moment 

 my flies were lifted from the water and again sent to the 

 same spot and meeting the same savage response. This 

 time I hung the lovely darling of the spotted jacket, and 

 the reel began the song so sweet to the angler's ears. I 

 soon had him in check, and after a fierce fight, which 

 lasted the usual time, he came to the net a victim of 

 man's subtle strategy. Joe expressed himself . pleased 

 that I had at last broken the fatal charm that hung so 

 sadly over me the previous day, and declared: 

 "You ketch fish now." 

 "Yes. I'll pile 'em up high to-day." 

 "What's the matter with me?" chimed in Ned. 

 "Oh, you are all right; you have the horns!" 

 "Yes, and I'll have the trout, too." 

 "All right, go ahead; but understand I fight for the 

 laurels to-day." 



After this brief conversation the flies were kept quite 

 busy falling aud quivering on the water. No more trout 

 wishing to be deceived here we went along to a cluster 

 of boulders over which the waters were gently breaking: 

 here I raised another fonUnoMs to my fly and brought 

 him safely in. Ned was getting sadly in arrears, for he 

 had not yet- had a single rise. Again we are on the 

 move and soon reach some shallows which are deeply 

 seamed, just the place for the quarry. Ned gets a rise 

 and misses and I get one, hang the beauty and then he 

 kisses me a farewell. Once more the flies are describing 

 the graceful arc and falling like down on restless waters. 

 Ned is finally rewarded for his perseverance with a 



splendid rise aud sends the cruel hook deep into the mis- 

 guided trom and soju is rewarded by seeing the glitter- 

 ing fish displaying his symmetrical outlines through the 

 meshes of the net. 



Once more we proceed to the measured music of the 

 oars and this time we halt in front of some old logs that 

 had been washed upon the beach and where the trees 

 are casting their faithful shadows o'er some debris of 

 shattered rock which is about half covered with water. 

 A kingfisher in his brilliant coat of colors is contentedly 

 sunning himself ou the top oi' a dead tree and is keenly 

 eyeing the surface of the shimmering water, as if his 

 breakfast awaited him in the aqueous realm. Our pres- 

 ence troubles him, but he holds to his lofty perch and 

 soon is made aware that we are intent on robbing his 

 preserve. I succeed in taking one of the speckled beau- 

 ties from his present domain and Ned follows suit with 

 another, and then the watchful bird raises on wing and 

 flies a short distance, alighting on the limb of a ragged 

 birch. A few more casts, which fail to secure a rise, 

 satisfied us and we push ahead. We are now neariug 

 waters that are checkered with dark lines, significant of 

 a creviced bottom. Here is fine cover for the dappled 

 trout and we are confident of securing a trophy or two. 

 Being in the bow I secure the first cast into the chosen 

 water and at once sudden ripples race around my fly. I 

 answer the summons, but too late, as the wary fish has 

 discovered and rejected the counterfeit. Baffled, but not 

 discouraged, I repeat the cast, striking the same spot, but 

 the agile trout as he looks out from his stony lair is not 

 soon again to be tempted with draggled feathers of red- 

 dish dye or tinsel glitter. Ned as he reaches the same 

 locality sends his "terror of the lake," the horny-headed, 

 into the same spot, but he decoys not a single fin to the 

 feast. Again and again the horns fall and splash and 

 hum through the air, until the angler is completely dis- 

 couraged. 



We move on, covering good grounds or waters with an 

 occasional rise and an occasional fish, until Joe announces 

 that he is hungry by telling us of the meridian hour; and 

 then we go ashore, make some tea and indulge in a good 

 lunch. We have come at least six miles and have been 

 rewarded by the capture of seven trout, one of which— 

 my first victim, I believe — weighs 4lbs., while the others 

 range but little below 3. It has been a delightful 

 morning, and the pleasure has been all that could be 

 desired. Having now an ample supply of trout, we were 

 content to head for the camp with our beautiful and 

 toothsome spoils. Ned, having enjoyed a luxurious 

 smoke after his lunch, announced that he was ready for 

 the return; and so we got aboard, and with a cheery song 

 from our vocalist, went gaily along under azure skies and 

 over rippling waters, and by huge rocks that sparkled 

 like gold in the bright sun. Occasionally we would make 

 a cast when a choice place offered, but the rises were in- 

 frequent, as the trout were evidently not on the feed. 

 Arriving near the spot where I had in the morning missed 

 the savage dash of a greedy trout, I concluded to try the 

 place again for him, and had a presentiment that I would 

 be successful in my efforts. I had my line and leader 

 well straightened by the little whipping I had indulged 

 in since noon, and the flies were in perfect condition. 

 Every gentle dip of the oar now was bringing me nearer 

 and nearer to the desired spot, and by the time I reached 

 it I was strung to a tension that foreboded ill to any in- 

 quisitive trout. 



"There you are. Let 'er go, Gallagher!" says Ned; and 

 away went the flies on their mission with unerring aim, 

 and as they lit like a thing of life upon the surface a 

 trout with a wolf -like snap broke the water, and being a 

 little off my balance and unduly excited , I made a vicious 

 strike, that not only made the pole crack from tip to butt, 

 but sent the hook deep and safe in the tough jaws of the 

 now bewildered and frantic trout. I looked to see my 

 rod break every minute, but it held firmly while the fish 

 fought with savage ferocity, and only when I saw him 

 completely conquered and safely in the net did I breathe 

 easier. He was a match to my first 4-pounder, beautiful 

 in form and symmetry, and rich in radiant dyes. 



Having more fish than we desired for our immediate 

 use, I laid my rod aside, well satisfied with the day's 

 sport. Ned, how%ver, would not cease until he had 

 caught one more, which he soon did, and then he reeled 

 up also, content with the unalloyed enjoyment of the 

 special trip. 



Arriving at camp, I challenged my old adversary to our 

 favorite game, and had the pleasure of routing him 

 "horse, foot and dragoons," he only winning one game 

 out of a series of five. It was a red letter day with me, 

 as I had won the laurels on both land and water. 



Having been in camp here fully a week we sighed for 

 new worlds, and so concluded to leave in the morning for 

 Harmony River, which empties its umber waters in beau- 

 tiful Bachewanaung Bay. We broke camp early next 

 morning and were off with a quartering wind that bade 

 fair to bring us to the mouth of the river by noon. When 

 we had gone half way over Maple Island Bay we made 

 the important discovery that we had left behind our land- 

 ing-net hanging to the limb of a balsam tree. Returning, 

 the net was secured, and again we are off. 



The sky that morning was of a soft silvery hue and 

 almost cloudless, and the entire landscape, so like a dream 

 of fairy land, was bathed in an exquisitely soft and deli- 

 cious atmosphere. The prevailing breeze was giving ani- 

 mation to the wood-crowned hills, while the long shad- 

 ows from the trees fell upon the curling waves that were 

 playing a zephyr like rhythm along the shore. Bache- 

 wanaung Bay is evidently one of the most beautiful bays 

 on the Great Lake. There are some wilder in scenery, 

 more abrupt in their shores, and with higher mountains, 

 adjacent, but none that have the quiet soothing beauty 

 with which it is so rife at every point. Thunder Bay, 

 with its graceful old cape and the heights of Pie Island, 

 present a picture truly magnificent, but for the real poetic 

 which charms to dreaminess and is full of restful ness, 

 Bachewanaung surpasses them all. As; you enter the 

 bay there suddenly comes upon one's sight, clear and dis- 

 tinct over the green island and the miles of quiet water, 

 the mountains of its northern and eastern shores, while 

 the sky and water are of that intense blue which seems 

 so unreal upon canvas. "The mountain line extends be- 

 yond the actual shores of the bay on the southeast, so 

 that it seems one unbroken chain away beyond where we 

 know Goulais River lies, while upon the north the shore gap 

 through which Harmony pours its waters comes into 

 view, with the higher mountains seen through it beyond." 

 And with the summer sun casting the shadows of the 



spangled chain of clouds upon the bay and mountains, it 

 will make a picture that will rival the buy of Uaplea. 



The breeze held good till we reached tiie northern side 

 of the cluster of islands that repose so sweetly in this 

 bay, and then the sail flapped idly this way and that, and 

 the boat drifted with the gentle current". We were be- 

 calmed in the brilliancy of a noonday sun in this beauti- 

 ful sheet of crystal water, fit home for the* Naiads and 

 Nereids. I never felt the force and beauty of that 

 delicious poem "Drifting," by the poet-painter T. Buch- 

 anan ReeS, as I did that day and at that time. Its mel- 

 lifluent music in the soft, sensuous air and on the bosom 

 of the murmuring lake is as pleasing as the notes of a 

 lute. Listen as 



Over the rail 



My hand I trail 

 Within the shadow of the sail, 



A joy intense, 



Tho cooling sense 

 Glides down my di'eamy indolence. 



With dreamful eyes 



My spirit lies 

 Where summer sings and never dies— 



O'erveiled with vines, 



She glows and shines 

 Among her future oil and wines. 



Ned, who had an appreciative soul for the beautiful in 

 nature, was deeply enthused with the lovely surround- 

 ings and declared that the fairies of Lake Superior could 

 not have selected for their abode a more charming spot. 

 At the mention of fairies the half-breeds were all at- 

 tention ,as anything of the romantic or supernatural is of 

 deep interest to them. 



"Fairies live here," says Joe. 



"Yes, fairies black, gray, green and white. Fairies 

 that trip after the night's shack and swifter than the 

 wand'riug moon." 



And Ned continuing said, "This is one of their most 

 noted places of residence. Here they were frequently 

 seen in bright moonlight evenings, and the •fishermen 

 while sitting in their canoes on the lake often saw them 

 playing their pranks and skipping over the hills. There 

 is a grove of pines in this vicinity called the manteowac 

 or spirit wood, into which they have been seen to flee, on 

 the approach of evening, and there is a romantic little 

 lake on one of the elevated sand hills not far back from 

 this great lake on the shore of which their tracks could 

 be plainly seen. These tracks were not bigger than little 

 children's footprints, and the spirits were often seen in 

 the act of vanishing. On one occasion they went so far 

 as to entice into the sacred grove and carry off a chief's 

 daughter named Neemoga, a small but exceeding beauti- 

 ful girl, who had been always inclined to te pensive, and 

 took her seat often in these lonesome haunts." 



"Beg pardon, Ned, did I understand you to say the 

 daughter was named Neemoga?" 



"Yes; why?" 



"I was just wondering if she were related to the old 

 woman who lived in a shoe." 

 "Rats!" 



With this expressive Americanism he relapsed into 

 deep silence, evidently annoyed at the interruption. 



"Well, go on, Ned, and tell us what befell the beauti- 

 ful Neemoga." 



He paused awhile in consideration and then kindly 

 taking up the thread of the romance said: 



"Neemoga's parents desired to marry her to a noted 

 hunter, but she was not inclined that way, as she longed 

 to go to a region where there was no weeping, no cares, 

 and no death. At length, after a series of conversational 

 interviews on the subject, she announced her willingness 

 to accede to the matrimonial proposals, and the day was 

 fixed for this purpose. She dressed herself in the finest 

 manner possible, putting flowers in her hair and carry- 

 ing a bunch of wild flowers, mixed with the tassels of 

 the pine tree, in her hand. One only request she made, 

 which was to make a farewell visit to the sacred grove 

 of the fairies before she visited the nuptial bower. This 

 was granted on the evening of the proposed ceremony, 

 while the bridegroom and his friends gathered in her 

 father's lodge and impatiently awaited her return. But 

 they waited in vain. Night came, but Neemoga was 

 never more seen, except by a fisherman on the lake shore, 

 who conceived that he had seen her go off with one of 

 the tall fairies, known as the fairy of Green Pines, with 

 green plumes nodding o'er his brows; and it is supposed 

 that she is still roving with him over the elysian fields 

 amid the rosy bowers of love eternal." 



"Ned, that sounds very much like one of the Hiawatha 

 legends." 



"One of the high-water legends; humbug; it is one of 

 the fairy romances of Lake Superior." 

 "Oh!" 



. And I was cruel enough to allow his auricular mistake 

 to go uncorrected, it was really too enjoyable for disil- 

 lusion. The completion of the romance brought into 

 activity the jargon of the half breeds, for any story that 

 savors of fairies, enchanters, monsters or demons holds 

 them spell-bound. 



We were now well to the north of the islands and 

 beading for the shore, which after reaching and follow- 

 ing for about a. mile brings us to Harmony River. Pete, 

 who seldom addressed us, suggested a troll for a lake 

 trout, stating that the bay was full of them. At this 

 prompting Ned opened his junk bag, and diving one 

 hand down amid all kinds of tackle, finally fished up a 

 trolling line with spoon. A good-sized sinker was at- 

 tached to the line and the spoon was sent spinning on 

 the unruffled waters. It had been in but a few minutes 

 before there came a terrific jerk, and then a captured 

 fish was at once headed for the boat at a 2.40 pace. Ned 

 got unduly excited over my rapidity in hauling in line, 

 and kept advising me to deal more gently with him. 

 Rapidity was my style, and before the fish could recover 

 himself sufficiently to wag his tail he was in the boat 

 flapping around among the camp stores in a surprising 

 manner. He was about a 41bs. lake trout. Again the 

 spoon is quivering in the water, and this time a longer 

 wait ensued between bites. It came, however after 

 patient waiting as a 31bs. brook trout, who fancied the 

 silver-plated spoon was the next victim, aud the last to 

 the troll, as we deemed it sacrilege to catch these beau- 

 ties with a troll, and therefore discontinued the use of 

 the glittering spoon. 



We soon entered the mouth of Harmony River, which 

 was discharging a rich umber-colored water. This is the 



