July 24, 1890.] 



FOREST AND STREAM 



7 



A RHYME OF THE MORNING. 



HPHE mockingbird's delusive note 



Seta all the woods a-rmging; 

 The vireo's ecstatic throat 



Is strained with stress of singing; 

 The passion flower's a-drip with devf 



Each hush aud shrub adorning. 

 As I joint my rod by the Calcasieu 



At four o'clock in the morning. 



That swirl by yonder lily pad 



Is plain to an angler's reading: 

 And my spirit mounts, and my soul grows glad, 



For I see that the flsh are feeding. 

 Then, just where the tiny circlet stops, 



Ah though it had "died a-borning," 

 My gay-winged "oriole" lightly drops, 



As a rose leaf drops in the morning. 



There's a darting rush from depths below— 



A shock that thrills the marrow; 

 The rod is bent like a yeoman'* bow, 



And the line shrills out like an arrow. 

 A noble strike, and a nobler rush, 



All tricks and dodges scorning! 

 He seeks no aid of log or brush, 



This fighter of early morning. 



A hissing line and a screaming reel - 



An angler, grim and breathless— 

 A flash in the air— a rainbow of steel — 



These memories are deathless! 

 And I will swear such glorious strife. 



In spite of the sluggard's scorning. 

 Is w orth ten years of peaceful life 



At home and abed in tho morning. 



The mockingbird's triumphant note 



Exultingly is ringing; 

 The vireo's ecstatic throat 



The stirring strife is singing. 

 The passion flower, a-drip with dew, 



A victor's breast is adorning, 

 As I sheathe my rod by tho Calcasieu, 



At five o'clock in the morning. 

 Lake Charles, Louisiana. II. P. II. 



SOME PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS 



Of Difficulties with the Bass Family, with a Few 

 Fishy Remarks. 



I.— The Bass of Boyhood. 



MY acquaintance with, the bass family began on the 

 Wabash River at the little village oC P., "risin' o' 

 forty years ago when I was a small boy with a frayed 

 straw hat an' one gallus," and has been followed up with 

 some intervals of rest — to the bass — with keen zest and 

 unalloyed pleasure ever since, and I am now on the other 

 side of the "divide of a century." 



The annual bass fever takes a rlrm grip on me about the 

 time the dogwood blossoms in the spring, and rages with 

 more or less violence till the buds begin to swell again for 

 the blooming time — a sort of perennial, rather than an- 

 nual malady— that bids fair to abide with me till the 

 Master calls for the final round-up. 



For the last twenty-four years I have camped out from 

 ten days to five weeks at a time, once and sometimes 

 twice a year on the Tippecanoe, Kankakee and Wabash 

 rivers, and a good many of the famous lakes of northern 

 Michigan; and as the years grow on apace, the love of 

 the sport of all sports seems to take a deeper root, and I 

 look forward to the next "Camp of the Kingfishers'' with 

 more eager anticipations of pleasant communings with 

 the woods and the waters than have been enjoyed in any 

 preceding one. 



Of all the fish with which the old rod has had to do 

 battle (a good many of them have been used in all these 

 years as boy and man, but it is always "the old rod"), the 

 bronze warrior with the bristling back stands at the head 

 of the list as a tireless, game fighter, cunning strategist, 

 a "hustler," and the one fruitful in resources and de- 

 vices to rid himself of the remorseless steel when hooked. 

 Not even the much sought after and over -praised 

 "speckled beauties" (pardon a phrase that has been worn 

 threadbare for a century or more) nor him of the vicious 

 eye and terrible jaw, the mighty maskinonje, show more 

 courage and lasting qualities in a "difficulty," or afford 

 more "pure delight," as Uncle Dan Sloan calls it, on the 

 rod, than the boyhood love — the small- mouthed black 

 bass, though just why he should be called black bass is 

 more than I have ever been able to find out. 



At the little village mentioned, the Wabash was ob- 

 structed by a big dam (a feeder of the Wabash and Erie 

 Canal) about 14ft. high and 600ft. long, and below this in 

 the spring of the year the bass, suckers, buffalo, "red 

 hoss," gars, "blue cats," goggle-eyes, white "pearch," 

 salmon, (pike perch— both the black and golden dappled), 

 an occasional "spoon-bill," with a smart sprinkling of 

 villainous dogfish, swarmed in thousands, all seemingly 

 intent on obeying the instinct of their natures, to seek the 

 upper waters where they might find suitable places for 

 their spawning bed3. 



Sitting on one of the abutments of the dam, of a clear 

 day, one might see a score of bass, with now and then 

 the flash of a golden-sided salmon, perch or sucker darting 

 up the long incline of the swiftly-flowing sheet of water 

 a foot or more in depth, that slid in unbroken volume 

 to the foam-flecked pool below; but it was a rare sight to 

 see one "make the riffle" and whisk his tail over the comb 

 of the structure and disappear in the slack-water above; 

 and when this did happen, the lucky fish was, as Dick 

 Mac says, "almost always invariably" a bass, the others 

 not seeming to have the staying qualities and power of 

 tail necessary to surmount the top. Many of them would 

 get half-way up, and some within a foot or two of the 

 apex, when they would lose their grip, turn a somersault 

 and be dashed back by the rushing waters, dazed and be- 

 wildered into the foaming depths below, only to rest 

 awhile and try it again. Sometimes a dozen or more of 

 them would be in sight at once within a hundred feet of 

 the abutment, and it was rare fun for "us boys" to sit and 

 watch them, making fabulous and windy wagers the 

 while as to whether this one or that one would "make the 

 riffle." or how far he would get up the sloping sheet of 

 water before "somerset time" would overtake him. Why 

 can't we always be boys ? 

 At a distance of from 8 to 30yds. below the dam, a line 



of great boulders stretched half way across the river from 

 the east, forming a deep and comparatively quiet pool be- 

 tween the riffles and the dam, which was at a certain time 

 in the season, like the Irishman's brook — "sthiff* wid fish." 



After the annual spring "fresh" had subsided till the 

 water was a foot deep or less on the dam and fairly clear 

 the village anglers would begin to bestir themselves and 

 get their tackle in order, never a great task, as it con- 

 sisted simply of a wooden pole, line and hook that had 

 been laid away during the winter. Reels, braided lines, 

 jointed rods, flies, patent trollers and the like that go to 

 make up the angler's outfit of nowadays were things 

 utterly unknown to the craft of this sleepy out-of-the- 

 way village, and when old Jess McCJellan, the "fishing 

 blacksmith," located in the place, bringing with him an 

 18ft. American cane pole with a butt the size of a small 

 sapling — the first cane pole we youngsters had ever seen 

 — he was the envy of overy fish crank in town. How- 

 ever, an iron wood sprout 10 or 12ft. long cut in the fall 

 when the sap was out, carefully trimmed and hung up 

 with a weight attached, to "set and season" during the 

 winter, was "good enough for the Joneses," and never 

 since has a rod, whatever its cost or qualities, given bet- 

 ter satisfaction or afforded more pure delight in handling 

 a fish than did that same tough and trusty "old ironwood 

 saplin' cut in the bresh." 



The line was usually twisted linen or cotton of about 

 the size of the E line of to-day, tied near the butt of the 

 rod and wound around in long spirals to the tip, where it 

 was secured by three or four half -hitches and wound on 

 in an oblong bunch till the required length of line was 

 left free of the rod. If at any time more line was needed 

 to troll or fish off one of the abutments the line was un- 

 wound to suit the case, a few half-hitches taken and the 

 sport went on with "jest as satisfyin' results" as though 

 equipped with a Leonard split-baxnboo, braided silk line 

 and a brand new 4-multiplying Frankfort reel, 



We had but four names for the hooks used; the "min- 

 ner hook," the sunfish,'the bass, and the catfish hook, 

 that grew larger in the order named, and we w r ere thereby 

 saved a heap o' trouble making fine distinctions between 

 the merits of the Kirby, Sproat, O'Shaughnessy, Carlisle, 

 salmon trout, Limerick, Sneck-band, etc., with their 

 various styles of numbering, which go so far in mystify- 

 ing the angler of the present day unless he has spent 

 more time in studying "hook nomenclature" than would 

 be required to tide htm over a Civil Service examination 

 of the highest grade. The hook most used for bass was 

 the Limerick, and it's a mighty good sort of a hook even 

 yet among all its fellows seeking recognition from the 

 brotherhood. 



II— An Artificial "Bob." 



The standby for the bait was the minnows, hundreds of 

 which could be scooped out of the eddies in the tail race 

 of the woolen mill with a piece of mosquito bar, or at a 

 pinch, the old straw hat. But when the salamander 

 (helgramite) was ripe, this was the favorite bait till it took 

 unto itself wings and flew away in the shape of a big, 

 dirty white fly. They were ugly customers to handle on 

 account of the sharp, curved pair of "ice tongs" each was 

 provided with at its head, but the results would more 

 than pay for a few severe nips, for they were so leathery 

 and tough that often five and six bass would be taken 

 with one salamander. 



The most killing lure, however, for spring fishing when 

 the bass was in the humor was a "bob," introduced by 

 the fishing blacksmith, a sort of nondescript fly that 

 looked like nothing on earth or in the waters. A stout 

 piece of line was first wrapped on the shank of a hook — 

 sometimes two were used, set at a right angle — then two 

 or three white feathers were similarly fastened with the 

 ends protruding an inch beyond the bowl of the hook. 

 Around this as low a? the curve of the hook a strip of 

 bright scarlet flannel was wrapped and sewed fast, mak- 

 ing a roll a little larger than a lead pencil, the lower end 

 a trifle larger than the upper. A strip of very thin brass 

 a half-inch wide, cut from the label of a sardine box, was 

 rolled around the upper end and securely fastened, and 

 with a split bullet clasped on the snell just above, to give 

 weight in casting, the nameless bug was complete — a 

 gaudy contrivance of about 'Sin. in length. I have per- 

 haps omitted the most important item in the construc- 

 tion of this bass killer (at least it was one in our eyes at 

 that day and the notion is not thoroughly eradicated yet, 

 so firmly do the angling superstitions of our youth take 

 root), and that was a small piece of gum ' asafoetida 

 wrapped on the hook shank, before the flannel was fast- 

 ened to its place. This, or a few drops of oil of anise, 

 was considered irresistible to any bass or pike-perch that 

 might be "nosin' 'round" for an odorous morsel; but if 

 any of the brethren feel like trying one of these flies, or 

 bugs, or "varmints," I think they may safely dispense 

 with the villainous smelling gum and the bass "will never 

 know the difference. 



The fishing blacksmith initiated me into the mysteries 

 of its construction and thereafter there was a friendly 

 strife between us as to which could take the most bass 

 with it. It was a noted fact that he would never fish 

 with live bait in the spring of the year, he would use 

 only his red bug, and he seemed to know intuitively the 

 days when the bass were in just the right humor to 

 take it, for he never came back empty-handed. His 

 favorite place to fish was just above the riffle, near a 

 lot of great boulders rearing their heads above the water, 

 when the river was at a good fishing stage. 



There was a narrow gap in the rocky line, 50 or 60ft. 

 below and a few yards to the west, through which the 

 water ran like a mill race, that the bass appeared to use 

 as a special highway by which to reach the deep water 

 below the dam, and here, anchored out in his boat within 

 easy casting distance of the break in the water, at the 

 head of the chute, he would "thrash the waters indus- 

 triously" on a good afternoon till the evening shadows 

 fell on the river, and drop back down to the town, a few 

 hundred yards below, with all the way from a dozen to 

 75 bass, with an occasional pike-perch sandwiched in for 

 variety. 



Old Jess was extremely reticent and peculiar in his 

 ways, and was never known to fish with any one, or ask 

 a friend to join him in a day's fishing, but "he was a 

 main hand at fishin'," as they say in Tennessee, and a 

 worthy disciple of "gentle old Ike," whose place he filled 

 as patron saint to all the anglers, old and young, of the 

 village. 



One Saturday, a couple of years after the advent of old 

 Jess in the village, when there was a Bmell of rain in the 



air I pushed father's little boat up to the riffles, where by 

 dint of hard work I waded and pulled it above at a cer- 

 tain shallow place, and was soon anchored at the coveted 

 spot, with the roar of the dam at the back to furnish the 

 music for the entertainment that followed. That spring 

 father had selected for mo a light, tough Mississippi cane 

 pole, from a bundle "imported" by one of the village 

 storekeepers, and with a new bob with two hooks that I 

 had spent some anxious hours over, a "bug" that eclipsed 

 all former efforts, I felt prouder than if I had owned half 

 the town. 



The bass seemed to be in unusual numbers above the 

 riffles and around the head of the chute that day, and I 

 wielded the rod until my arms ached, hooking a fish at 

 nearly every cast and very rarely losing one. There was 

 no playing a fish for sport indulged in; no music of the 

 reel to go into ecstacies over, as a reel was an unheard of 

 implement; nor was any time wasted in watching "the 

 glorious bend of the rod." The gaudy bunch of tinsel, 

 flannel and feathers was dropped on the water "k'chunk," 

 with an utter disregard to "delicacy of cast," "feathery 

 lightness," "like a snow flake or a spray of thistle down," 

 and the like flummery beloved of "ye tournament fisher," 

 and drawn with jerky pull across or up the current near 

 the head of the channel, and when a tug was felt the vic- 

 tim was unceremoniously pulled alongside and yanked 

 into the boat before he had time to find out what hit him. 

 That was the way it was done in those days when we 

 were out for count, and before we had learned more 

 sportsmanlike ways and methods. 



As youngsters, we are intent only on landing our fish; 

 as we grow older in the gentle art we take more pride in 

 our tools and tackle and skill in handling them, and the 

 performance of a favorite rod affords more "bileel down" 

 happiness to the grizzled angler than does his landed 

 fish. 



The first two or three dozen were strung over the sides 

 of the boat; but as the afternoon wore on the fun grew so 

 fast and "overpowerin"' that the others that came to 

 grifif in rapid order were dropped in the bottom of the 

 boat in an inch or two of leaked-in water, which was 

 kept from further encroaching by a few timely dips now 

 and then with an old battered basin. When evening fell 

 the fish quit biting, and with tired arms but happy heart 

 the anchor was lifted in and the boat guided through the 

 chute and down to the landing at the mill, with a score 

 to my credit that laid old Jess's best catch in the shade. 



Father was waiting at the landing to "interview me 

 with a bresh" for staying so late, but at the tight of the 

 fish he forgot all about the time of day and the intended 

 "breshin"' (greatly to my pleasement), for he was an 

 eager sportsman and a skillful handler of the rod him- 

 self — of which I got an occasional taste when I would 

 fish or hunt too late of a Saturday and fail to have the 

 "Sunday wood" cut on time — albeit, the rod he used on 

 these occasions was not the one he usually fished with. 



To beat the fishing blacksmith with a lure he had 

 taught me to make, was "a leetle too much glory for the 

 Joneses," and the consequence was a well-developed case 

 of enlargement of the cranium that necessitated the pur- 

 chase of a new hat next day that was a full size larger 

 than the old one. Old Jess seemed as well pleased over 

 the catch that beat his record as I was, and the bond of 

 brotherhood between us, despite the disparity in our years, 

 was more firmly riveted than ever, but he still held to his 

 solitary ways and I never had the coveted pleasure of an 

 invitation to join him in a day out with the bass. 



I have never since taken as many fish in one clay, not 

 even trout when they "were a bitin' like all possessed," 

 nor will I e ver wish to unless I degenerate into a pot fisher 

 — which may the good Lord keep me from. 



III. — Large-Mouth and Small-Mouth. 



The bass taken below the old dam in the spring time 

 usually ran from half a pound to a pound and a half and 

 two pounds in weight, and rarely was a three-pounder 

 overtaken, although when the neighboring farmer folk 

 came in gangs from miles around and camped, some in 

 tents and some in wagons, for the annual spring "seining 

 spree," dozens of big fellows might be seen jumping the 

 seines as they were drawn up on the sloping, gravelly 

 beach below the riffles that looked to be four or five 

 pounds weight. 



At rare intervals, perhaps two or three times in a season, 

 a "big-mouth," called "lake bass," and "Oswego bass," 

 would be taken, but by whichever name they came to 

 grief, they were looked on with disfavor and considered 

 a sort of interloper and "no 'count fighter," and in all of 

 the succeeding years, during the past ten of which I have 

 enjoyed a somewhat intimate acquaintance with them, I 

 have not seen occasion to change the opinion formed of 

 their fighting qualities when a bare-footed boy. 



It would be impossible to convince me that the large- 

 mouthed bass can begin to hold up his end with the 

 small-mouth when it comes to a question of strength, en- 

 durance, quickness of motion, and all the "hustling" 

 qualities that go to make up a game and tireless fighter 

 at the end of a line, and I hold that no bass fisher who has 

 handled both kinds can maintain to the contrary, unless 

 his head loses its balance and his wrist its power of dis- 

 crimination during the progress of the difficulty. 



I have not imbibed these notions — prejudices, if you 

 will — from specimens of the genus homo, whom I have 

 met on stream or lake; they have come to me by the 

 close observation of years, the handling of many of both 

 varieties in the same waters, and a discriminating wrist, 

 and I don't believe with Dr. Henshall "that the large- 

 mouthed bass, all things being equal, displays as much 

 pluck and exhibits as much untiring fighting qualities as 

 its small-mouthed congener." With due deference to the 

 Doctor's superior attainments as a scientist, naturalist 

 and an engaging writer, I venture the opinion that he 

 don't know as much about the fighting qualities of the 

 two varieties as he would like to have us believe; that he 

 has not improved his opportunities to the full extent of 

 his "caliber." 



Nor am I alone in the belief in the inferiority of the 

 large-mouthed bass. Not a bass fisher of my acquaint- 

 ance, who has handled both kinds (and I know a good 

 many), notably my old comrades of the camps in north- 

 ern Michigan, but will, I believe, bear me out in this 

 "notion" of the decided superiority of the small-mouthed 

 bass as a fighter over his big-beaded cousin when it comes 

 to a personal difficulty with the angler. The difference 

 has been so noticeable that on three occasions in the last 

 ten years we have moved the camp from a lake where 

 we could get nothing but big-mouths, to some other lake, 



