394 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[ April 28. 1892. 



"THE SILVER KING." 



IF ever any one enjoyed the calm serene delight of the 

 successful angler, mingled with his exquisite moments 

 of eager, keen excitement, it was Izaak Walton — and yet 

 he never caught a tarpon! Had he done so, he would 

 have added another chapter to his admirable book, of 

 which Charles Lamb declares that "it would sweeten a 

 man's temper to read it, and Christianize every discord- 

 ant passion;" and the " Complete Angler" would have 

 been not simply complete, but perfect. 



The tarpon is justly called the '-Silver King." Apart 

 from his size, muscular energy and wonderful agility, he 

 surpasses in beauty all the finny tribe that inhabits the 

 Gulf of Mexico. His general appearance inspires the 

 observer with admiration. The scientist has named biin 

 Megalops atlantieus, or M. thrissoides. But the salient 

 characteristic mark, the extraordinary size of its scales, 

 which are proportionably the largest known in the genus 

 piscis, seems to have been overlooked. For brilliancy, 

 the exposed part of the scales of this wonderful creature 

 is incomparable. They vary from the dazzling white of 

 polished silver to the oxidized irridescent colors. In life 

 every scale is a separate jewel, forming, together, in their 

 blended hues an indescribably brilliant mass, which, as 

 the stream of life slowly ebb3 away, grows fainter and 

 fainter, gradually losing its splendor, and retaining only 

 a portion of its silvery brightness. 



Tarpon have been caught on the Atlantic coast of 

 Florida, as well as on the western Bide of the peninsula, 

 in the Gulf of Mtxico. But, from all accounts, Charlotte 

 Harbor and its numerous creekB and inlets, especially the 

 Caloosahatchee River, seem to be the headquarters of 

 this prince jof fishes. It is there that the gallants of this 

 gorgeous tribe accompany great schools of their better 

 halves to prepare the cradles for a coming generation, 

 and the river here affords all the advantages to be de- 

 sired, and necessary for the propagation of the species. 

 But alas, the sportsman has got wind of it. He has found 

 out the wonted haunts of the beautiful creature, and is 

 rapidly decimating its ranks with hook and line. It is 

 only recently, however, that the angler has learned the 

 art of catching the tarpon with hook and line. 



All those who have caught salmon, bluefisb, muscal- 

 onge, black bass or pickerel are unanimous in their praise 

 of tarpon fishing, claiming for it a superiority over every 

 other species of angling. It has, besides, a peculiar charm 

 in its surroundings. In the winter season, when the 

 northern tourist leaves frozen rivers and stormy lakes, he 

 is transferred to the Bunny South, where amid semi- 

 tropical foliage, the trees on both sides of the river laden 

 at the same time with blossoms and with fruit, his skiff 

 is anchored in a smooth expanse of crystal water, while 

 the blue sky above and the air redolent of the perfume 

 of the orange and wild flowers wafted from the shores 

 make the very sense of existence delicious*. But now 

 comes the crowning ecstasy, a silver king is at the end of 

 his line, and leaping several feet clear out of the water, 

 shows his silver sides flashing in the sun, and dazzling 

 the eyes — a superb fellow who will task all your patience 

 and reward your skill. In examining the registers at 

 the various hotels, at St. James City, Punta Rassa, Fort 

 Myers, etc., I found that, with few exceptions, those who 

 ha'd caught a tarpon, last year, returned this season to 

 catch another, and that those who had not been so suc- 

 cessful, returned to try again. 



Like all other pursuits and hobbies, tarpon fishing has 

 its magnates. Men like Messrs* Wood and Middleton, 

 from Philadelphia, and Mr. Nixon, from Bridgeton, New 

 Jersey, are universally known, and during the dies irm, 

 i. e., when the winds are adverse, and the tarpon slum- 

 bers and will not "strike," these apostles of the hook and 

 line are listened to by the new comers and less knowing 

 ones, at the fireside of the drawing rooms, with the 

 greatest attention. Whoever has not heard their con- 

 versation, knows nothing about "fishing." 



While I do not pretend to belong to the class of experts, 

 it would be an in justice to exclude me from the ranks of 

 those who go afishing and enjoy the sport. I have taken 

 advantage of my few holidays, both in this country and 

 abroad, to follow the game, and I have spent whole days 

 and nights in angling from fishing boats and skiffs, in the 

 waters of various climes and in both hemispheres. But 

 the largest fish that I had ever caught, until this spring, 

 were two that I captured last summer at Alexandria Bay, 

 St. Lawrence River— two 91b. pickerel. 



My attention was, therefore, entirely absorbed while 

 listening to the wondrous stories of these Nimrods of the 

 gentle art. My skepticism, which, at first, had been a 

 very lively emotion, gradually subsided, and I can now, 

 from personal experience, bear testimony to the fact that 

 the fishing in the southern part of Florida, both on the 

 Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic side, fully confirms all 

 the big stories told of it. I have seen a little girl (Miss 

 Watkins), the daughter of the hotel-keeper at St. James 

 City, Pine Island, sitting on the wharf, catching in an 

 hour as many as sdO sheepshead, varying in weight from '6 

 to 61bs. And there they were left, no one, seemingly, 

 caring to take them, because better fish, such as Spanish 

 mackerel, pompano, sea trout, channel bass, grouper, 

 etc., were abundant, and could be bought for a mere 

 trifle. 



I left Tampa en route for St. James City on the S. S. 

 Tarpon. The name of the steamer is signifiant, but one 

 is not at all surprised at it. Tarpon is the order of the 

 day. Everybody talks tarpon, villages spring up near itB 

 favorite haunts, and the people flock to them as to some 

 "placer" at the west. Take Fort Myers as an instance, 

 and you must come to the conclusion that it owes its 

 present prosperity, mainly, to the "Silver King." Every 

 branch of its trade is, more or lees, influenced by the fish- 

 ing industry. The hotels, with few exceptions, are more 

 or less crowded with opulent pleasure seekers, whose sole 

 objectis to secure a trophy of this beautiful fish— nothing 

 les.s will satisfy them. 



The rooms of the Hendry House, where I put up, were 

 all full. There were politicians and financiers from 

 Gotham; staid, solid men from the Quaker City; farmers 

 from Old Virginia and from the State which nurtures the 

 lively, musical mosquito. Men of divers professions — 

 lawyers who had left their clients to fight their own bat- 

 tles, and doctors who thought that their patients could 

 take care of themselves. Some of these were accom- 

 panied by their matronly wives and beautiful daughters. 



and brought a charming refinement to improve the social 

 life — but all were united in a common aim. 



It is worth while to watch the arrival of the steamer, 

 or the train at the railroad station. The tourist, without 

 exception, will have, in addition to his ordinary luggage, 

 one or more long parcels, which contain peculiar treas- 

 ures to which his heart is tenderly attached. At the 

 hotel everything speaks of tarpon — the walls are adorned 

 with stuffed specimens — and prizes are offered by the 

 landlord toany angler who shall catch a tarpon weighing 

 over 105 lbs. At the tables this forms the burthen of the 

 conversation — the talk is all about tarpon. The early 

 breakfast is hurriedly despatched, while the expressive 

 faces of the different guests would form a study for a 

 Teniers or a Rembrandt. There sits little Mr. J., from 

 Richmond, his beautiful better half near him; his face is 

 bright with smiles, and why? Yesterday he caught a 

 tarpon, and to-day he intends to catch another. Near 

 him is sturdy Mr. D,, from New York, a man in whose 

 face character and resolution are finely depicted. Yet 

 his eye is heavy and his brow contracted. Why? Be- 

 cause he came here last summer to catch tarpon, and 

 caught none. This year, with a new corduroy suit, fully 

 up to the occasion, and a spliced bamboo rod of the most 

 approved style, he has tried it again. Yet, notwithstand- 

 ing his personal advantages, I am sorry to say that he and 

 his chum have again returned to New York— minus the 

 fish. 



Fishing, like other sports .has also its grotesque aspects. 

 The following story may be discredited in this part of 

 the country, and yet it is literally true. It afforded an 

 interesting topic of conversation among all the guests in 

 the Handry House at Fort Myers. Mr. and Mrs. T. — the 

 former an elderly gentleman bordering upon 80 years, 



THE TARPON'S LEAP. 



From an instantaneous photograph, by Dr. -T. .1. Ktrkbridge, 

 showing the leap of a hooked fish. 



caught a tarpon weighing over 120 lbs. They caught him 

 literally by the tail, and it took them hauling and pull- 

 ing, over three hours to land him! The fish succeeded in 

 ejecting the hook and bait, but in some way became 

 entangled with the line. Mr. T. struggled manfully to 

 secure his captive, and Mrs. T., with wifely devotion, 

 struggled to aid him in so doing; finally by their united 

 efforts, assisted by their guide, they hauled the tarpon 

 into their boat — and the prize was won. This is only one 

 of the amusing episodes that are continually cccurring. 



It was a balmy morning; everything looked encourag- 

 ing. The orange trees in front of my windows partially 

 obscured the rays of the rising sun, and the air was 

 redolent of the mango and the orange. This, coupled 

 with the fresh greenness of the leaves, the golden hue of 

 the fruit, and the Binging of the birds made me forget 

 for the moment where I was. I dreamed that I was in 

 Seville, in Andalusia, in my cosy room at Triana on the 

 banks of the romantic Guadalquivir. Had it not been 

 for the hoarse voice of the colored waiter, knocking at 

 my door and exclaiming in "Cracker English," "pass 

 six," I should have remained in this delicious reverie 

 somewhat longer. But the terse "six o'clock," instead of 

 the usual "i!as sets han dado, y and the absence of the 

 customary little cup of chocolate, soon convinced me 

 that I was no longer in the land of Don Quixote. 



Dr. Mason, of Boston, and myself had, on the previous 

 day, engaged a sail boat whose "captain" wa3 no less a 

 personage than Felipe Belaequez, a youth of IT or 18 

 years. His age, however, does not prevent his being the 

 owner of a sail boat — moreover, he is by no means inferior 

 in station to his senior confreres. He is the son of a 

 Spanish emigrant from Tenerifa. The older boatmen 

 treat him as an equal. For Felice is a power among 

 them. No one would willingly quarrel with Felice for 

 several reasons; one — very potential— is that his father 

 supplies the mullet, the proper bait for tarpon — mullet, 

 which every party must secure before the start. 



Everybody was up and on the veranda at the rear of 

 the hotel, where suitably attired the fishermen were busy 

 with their rods and lunch baskets, and the sail boats with 

 sails hoisted and colors flying formed a pretty picture 

 while waiting for their crews. Our Felipe had besides 

 the stars and stripes an additional flag, upon which was 

 curiously embroidered the name "Martin," He was very 

 proud of this. Several boats were ahead of us — this 

 seemed to annoy Felipr — he was anxious to pass them, 

 and although his craft did not carry sufficient sail to 

 fairly succeed, yet by tact and stratagem the young 

 sailor managed very cleverly to leave two of them in his 

 wake. He would now and then hail a captain with some 

 jest or gibe well understood between them — "Hallo John! 

 How many tarpon will your boat land to-day?" This was 

 sarkasm, as Artenms Ward would say, for the previous 

 day, the 14th of March, nearly every one got a strike; 

 but John, in spite of his bets, was without a catch. "Will 

 you bet to-day? How much?" John accepts the chal- 

 lenge, but Felipe, who is only joking, adds, "Ah, well, 

 call at my office (?): and we will arrange it." Felipe, you 

 sse, is something of a wag. 



The tarpon line is about like that for bass, the snood, 

 near the hook, wound with fine copper wire. Quite as 



cunning as the bluefisb, the tarpon leaps ahead of the 

 line to draw out the hook. At the first mad rush and 

 leap, when the whizzing of the line and the whir of the 

 reel tell the story, you let it spin, and row rapidly to 

 catch up with your fleet courser — then as he slacks his 

 speed, and perhaps doubles toward you, you reel in, and 

 back, to keep your line taut. Towing you for miles, 

 sometimes, apparently waiting to recover breath, and 

 then darting off again at full speed, you maneuver and 

 play him, until, finally, he is brought up alongside of 

 your skiff, ready for the gaff. But here you must be on 

 the alert, for often when seemingly exhausted he will, 

 with a sudden flounce, snap your line and disappear. 

 Now, if you are weary of the sport, your skiff is again 

 attached to the sailboat and you are off for home. The 

 tarpon I caught upon this occasion weighed 112 lbs., and 

 measured 6ft. in length. He made rive leaps, three 

 times clearing the surface of the water by his full length. 

 It took me not quite an hour to land him. I regarded it 

 as quite a triumph. There were about twenty sailboats 

 on the fishing grounds, but only three fish were taken. 



S. A. Binion, M. D. 



Foht Mtebs, Fla., March 15. 



A HUNT BY TELEGRAPH. 



V\J E three had it all arranged for a certain legal holi- 

 T » day. We were to make a flying trip to our native 

 hamlet, starting the evening previous, and traveling by 

 sleeper. Then the whole of Uncle Sam's festal anniver- 

 sary was to be devoted to scouring the familiar field and 

 wood?, known and loved of our boyhood, in quest of the 

 game which used to abound there. We were three young 

 fellows who had come from the same New England vil- 

 lage to the great city of New York, to seek our fortunes. 

 S > far we had all done pretty well. Lester had a desir- 

 able position on the staff of one of the great dailies; 

 Charlie was head of one of the departments of a prosper- 

 ous wholesale drug house, and I was a telegraphic opera- 

 tor in one of the down-town Western Union offices. We 

 had been planning this outing of ours for monthh: and as 

 the day approached the pleasure of anticipation grew al- 

 most feverishly keen. Imagine, then, my intense disap 

 pointment when, at the last moment, there occurred an 

 unexpected crisis in the political world, which caused a 

 perfect Vallambrosa shower of yellow telegrams to drift 

 over all the big cities in the Union; and for the poor tele- 

 graph operators all hope of a holiday was suddenly blot- 

 ted out. 



Early in the afternoon of the day we had planned to 

 start, I sent a message to my friends announcing this 

 woful state of affairs, and toward evening they both catue 

 in to condole with me. 



"What a pity!" exclaimed Lester, "It is probably 

 the only chance for an outing we shall have this year." 



"But you mustn't let it make any difference with you, 

 boys," I said. "It would be a shame for you to give up 

 the trip on my account, and if you did, don't you see, 1 

 should lose even the pleasure of hearing you tell about it 

 when you come back! I think, if I could only know 

 what you were doing, all the time, I shoulel really enjoy 

 the hunt almost as much as if I were with you." 



Charlie's face grew thoughtful for a moment, and then 

 brightened suddenly. "I have it!" he cried. "Whycan't 

 you know all the time, just what we are doing? Why 

 can't we send you bulletins by telegraph?" 



Lester and 1 both broke out into a hearty laugh. Then 

 Lester suddenly sobered, and said: "Why, perhaps it isn't 

 so ridiculous, after all. Really, I suppose we might do 

 that very thing, and it would be a jolly lark, too— some- 

 thing quite unprecedented in the annals of sportsmanship. 

 Hourly or two-hourly bulletins — Specials from W T illowa- 

 ville, carrying consternation or jubilation to the heart of 

 the metropolis, or rather, to one heart in the metropolis. 

 I say, Charlie, let's do it! We can get a boy to go along 

 with us and act as messenger, give him one bulletin, and 

 then tell him where to meet us for the next, you know. 

 A great scheme, and we will have no end of f un out of it, 

 besides helping to brighten the weary hours of this poor 

 slave of the ticker. If* it a go? Oire'us your hand : 



Charlie and Lester shook hands with great animation 

 over their truly benevolent scheme, and 1 on my part 

 was so delighted with the idea of a hunt by telegraph, 

 that 1 was almost glad I could not accompany the expedi- 

 tion in person. A few moments more of pleasant autici- 

 patory chat, and then Lester and Charlie hurried away 

 to get their traps together and catch the evening train. 



ft was with an unwonted sense of exhilaration that I 

 entered the telegraph office next morning, and sat down 

 to my instrument. I felt more as if I were about to be 

 introduced to some new and rare entertainment than as 

 if I were settling down to a hard day's work in the ac- 

 customed way. For I had given my friends directions 

 by which their messages were to come direct to my office 

 and my instrument, and after nine o'clock I was in 

 momentary expectation of the first of the "bulletins." 



Suddenly, after a string of dull repetitions, or wholly 

 unintelligible messages between political wire-pullers 

 and other parasites of the "machine," together with a 

 death ortwo, and one or two metallic lovers' kisses flashed 

 over the wire, came the welcome word, "Willowsville." 

 Then, with a beaming face, I bent over my instrument 

 to take the message. It ran as follows: 



9:15 A. M.— Just afield. Ridley's woods the objective point. 

 Glorious morning. Messenger secured. 



Ridley's woods! I could see the familiar old pines on 

 the hillside, nodding their branches in the morning wind. 

 I could hear the soft, murmuring music they made. I 

 could smell the aroma of the resinous brown carpet under 

 foot, I knew just where the November sun was shining 

 in the sky, rig tit over the ridgepole of Deacon Pratt's old 

 barn on Slate Hill. 1 could see the clear sunlight chang- 

 ing into diamonds the myriad crystals of hoar-frost on 

 the grass of the meadow. I could see Ihe dogs frisking 

 around Charlie and Lester, and could hear the sharp com- 

 mand, "To heel, there, Fritz!" or "Steady, Marco!" 1 

 could see the glittering gun-barrels, and hear the crunch- 

 crunch of bunting boots in the crisp frosty grass. It was 

 almost equal to being there: only I would like to have 

 shied a stone at that old gray mare of Deacon Pratt's — was 

 always out to pasture from March until December — and 

 seen her kick up her heels and gallop away, with many a 

 clumsy antic, like a superannuateel dowager trying to 

 tread the mazes of an airy waltz! 



Again until eleven o'clock my instrument ticked noth- 

 ing but politics, and other hum-drum, ordinary affairs of 



