May 12, 1893,] 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



440 



AFTER BLACK BASS. 



"Once again the pine tree sung; 

 'Speak not thy speech nay boughs among; 

 Put off thy years, wash in the breeze, 

 My hours are peaceful centuries. 

 Talk no more with feeble tongue; 

 No more the fool of space and time. 

 Come weave with mine a nobler rhyme.' " 



— B. W. Emerson. 



SOMETHING of similar import was what Stephens said 

 to me one May morning, which seemed to prophesy 

 of a perfect May day. Lowell has sung: 



"And what is so rare as a day in June, 

 Then if ever come perfect day ; 

 Then heaven tries the earth if it be in tune. 

 And over it softly her warm ear lays." 



But occasionally we have perfect days in May, even in 

 northern Minnesota. "I'm tired out and cross, and don't 

 feel a bit like work. Let's go fishing somewhere," 

 Stephens said. 



"Where?" I asked. 



"Ob, anywhere, only let us get out somewhere. What 

 do you say to going to Big Floyd Lake?" 



"Just the place; we've never been there. Let's try it." 



While we were hitching up Mrs. Stephens put up our 

 lunch, and loading in our canvas boat 

 we started for the lake, which lies three 

 miles north of Detroit city. 



"We'll try in the north arm of the 

 lake first," said Stephens. We put up 

 our boat, started out, and for two hours 

 had a most aggravated experience. As 

 soon as our lines were on the water the 

 hook would be seized by a pike or a 

 pickerel, mostly the latter, with an 

 occasional pike perch. It made no 

 difference what was on the hook, live 

 minnow, rubber minnow or frog, flies 

 of a dozen sorts, piece of pickerel, eye 

 of pike— each and all were equally 

 effective and as desirable for the fish's 

 stomach. The pickerel and pike would 

 now and then bite a snell off and go. 

 If we had kept what we caught I be- 

 lieve we would have filled the boat. 

 Just as our patience was exhausted it 

 commenced to rain, our fair morning 

 proving to have prophesied falsely, or 

 we went wrong in our interpretations 

 thereof. We pulled ashore and found 

 shelter under a low, close-growiDg 

 spruce. How the rain did come down ! 

 We built a large fire, ate a lunch and 

 patiently waited, passing the time by 

 talking about the bass, which it seemed 

 we were not to get. That they were 

 there we were certain, but they could 

 get no chance on account of the vora- 

 cious pickerel. 



"Well," said Stephens, "if it stops 

 raining we'll get out of here and try 

 over in the main lake. 



Presently the clouds did lighten a 

 little, then a little more. The drops 

 fell less and less thickly on the placid 

 surface of the lake. Not a breeze was 

 stirring, and the lake lay like a great 

 grassy, somber piece of dark, cloud- 

 colored glass. 



Suddenly the sun shone through. 

 "Let's get out of this quick," said 

 Stephens. We rowed across the lake 

 to where we had left the horse, which 

 we had taken out of the shafts and 

 tied to the rear end of the buggy. Tired 

 of standing and annoyed by the rain, 

 the horse had managed to turn the 

 buggy upside down, and was standing 

 complacently viewing the scene. We 

 righted things up and drove around to 

 where a long stretch of sand beach 

 marked the shore of the main lake. 

 Here we hitched our horse, put the 

 boat into the water again and started 

 for the north shore. We were just 

 getting to the point we were aiming for when I had a 

 strike, and called out, "A bass sure!" I brought the fish 

 to net and found it was a 3-pounder. In a few minutes 

 Stephens had one, then I one. We rowed a little further, 

 then allowed the boat to drift back with the waves, 

 catching three more as we went. We repeated this until 

 we had eleven bass, and then the thunder, which had 

 been growling for some time at a distance, became more 

 distinct, a heavy black cloud rolled rapidly down over 

 the lake, and we reached shore and found shelter just in 

 time to escape a Minnesota f quail. The inky blackness 

 of the water lightened here and there into a bottle green, 

 the waves foam-capped, the low-flying clouds, roaring 

 thunder, gleaming lightning and rushing wind, all com- 

 bined produced an effect which we thoroughly enjoyed. 

 Soon the sun came out, and "the bow in the clouds" 

 spanned the east. 



While waiting for the waves to subside a little we ate 

 our dinner and talked over the catch. "I've only one 

 fault to find," Stephens said, "and that is they are all 

 large-mouth and I'd rather catch one small-mouth than 

 two large-mouth each of the same size." 



"The way they bit reminded me of an experience I had 

 before I ever knew you," I remarked. "It was the largest 

 catch of small-mouth black bass that I ever made in a 

 short time, and was made the first time I ever went to 

 Lost Lake. Tell you about it, of course. 



"The first frost had touched the leaves, and in response 

 they were turning to red, gold and various shades of 

 brown, when a couple of friends of mine and myself set 

 up our tent on the thickly wooded bank of the Red River 

 of the North, about half a mile below where it leaves 

 Ottertail Lake, a beautiful place for a camp, too. The 

 next morninar after our getting there we went down the 

 river to Lost Lakn. This lake is divided into three parts 

 of nearly equal size by two out-reaching pairs of erravel 

 points, which, coming close together, leave only space for 

 the river to rush through from first lake into second and 

 from second into third, from whence it flows on its sinuous 

 Avay to Lake Winnipeg and Hudson Bay. At the two 



rapids where the river rushes between the points is the 

 best bass fishing, or rather, was the best. Not knowing 

 this we fished in the first lake until near the middle of 

 the afternoon, and all we caught was an occasional pike 

 or pickerel. At length in disgust Jim said, 'Put me 

 ashore and I'll lie down in the shade, smoke and take a 

 nap, and you fellows can go and do what you please.' 



"We left Jim lighting his pipe and started for the 

 lower end of the lake. Here we found the river rushing 

 through the narrow channel, and we concluded to land 

 and explore for a while. I took my rod out of the boat 

 with me, and before starting on our tramp of exploration 

 I made a cast out into the current. Whew! I thought 

 lightning had struck me by the way the line started 

 to run out, the reel to hum and the rod to bend as 

 I checked the line a little. I had struck a bass sure 

 enough. A small-mouth, too, I felt sure, by the action of 

 the fish. I called to Will, who ran to get his rod, and by 

 the time he was back I had brought the fish to land; a 

 magnificent fellow he was. I at once cast again, so did 

 Will, and immediately we had each hooked a fish. We 

 repeated the performance again and again, and inside of 

 an hour we brought 21 tine small-mouths to land, rang- 

 ing in weight from 2 to 4^1 bs. We stopped at this num- 

 ber, not because the fish were gone, but because we had 

 more than we could use already. This was the time I 

 hooked the same fish three times. I was reeling in a fish 



see where it turned off into the woods. 'Twas easy 

 enough, the ground is so soft since the shower." 



We loaded up and came home. After supper Stephen 

 said, "I can work much better to-morrow; there is 

 nothing like a day after fish to put life into a man." 



Myron Cooley. 



Detroit City, Minn. 



MY REVERIE. 



ANTLERS OF WHITE-TAIL DEER. 



Shot on the Little Missouri River, November, 1883, by W. H. Brummitt, 

 Pontiac. Mich. From a photograph. 



when a second one took the upper fly, and after a few 

 frantic struggles the snell parted and away the fish went. 

 Without putting on another fly I put on a fresh minnow, 

 and cast again with the minnow and the remaining fly. 

 Almost as soon as the line touched the water a fish took 

 the fly, and I had it nearly in when again the snell 

 parted and the fish was lost. I cast again, using only the 

 minnow, hooked and landed a good-sized fish, put on 

 another minnow and made another cast, and was at once 

 fast to a fish which I successfully landed ; and as I un- 

 hooked him, to my great astonishment I found two 

 broken snells hanging from his mouth and in the upper 

 jaw my two lost flies. 'Yes,' growled Jim, as we picked 

 him up on our way back and recounted our exciting hour's 

 sport to him, 'that's always the way. If I'd gone there 

 not a fish would I have caught, and if you'd stayed here 

 you'd have caught fish on the sand or in the bushes.' " 



"You did have rare sport," said Stephens as I con- 

 cluded, "but let's get out and try for some more big- 

 mouths." 



We caught four more big ones and three or four that 

 weighed only a pound, which we put back, telling them 

 "to grow a year or so more." The wind was now blow- 

 ing very strong and it was hard work to keep the boat 

 headed up and make progress, so we quit fishing and 

 started for the place where we had left the horse. When 

 we were near the shore a small boy came running along 

 the sand called out, "Say, your horse is gone!" We 

 landed and ran to where we had hitched the horse. A 

 broken strap tied around the tree told the story. While we 

 were considering if we should walk home and carry the 

 fish a man driving a horse and buggy appeared, and, to 

 our surprise, it was our runaway. 



"I found the rig about two miles below here," the man 

 said. "The horse was walking along toward town ; 1 recog- 

 nized the horse and made up my mind that you two fish- 

 ing cranks were out here somewhere and had let the horse 

 get away." 



"How did you know where we were?" we asked. 

 "Oh, I just followed the track back, and kept watch to 



AS the sun grows warmer and warmer each day, my 

 thoughts go forward in anticipation of trout fishing 

 and of the green woods, which so quietly and yet so 

 sweetly welcome you once more to the shady nooks, away 

 from the worry and care of business. 



As I sit now, with eyes closed and the smoke lazily 

 curling up from my corncob, mentally reviewing past 

 outings, one in particular looms up before me for which 

 I have special reverence, because it was the first fishing 

 trip I ever made when I felt entirely satisfied with my 

 catch, not that fifteen lib. trout were anything to brag 

 of. 



It was about the first week in May, 1887, when my 

 friend E. got the trout fever "bad," and proposed that we 

 start at once for a new stream he had heard of. I said, 

 ' 'Wait a few weeks, for, notwithstanding that the midday 

 was warm, there was frost in the mountains each night 

 and we should have our troubles for 

 nothing." And I afterward learned I 

 was quite right. 



Well, on June first, we left on the 

 West Shore Railroad, E. and myself, 

 boots, creels, rods and other duffle, and 

 at sunset were located in a small inn at 

 S., way up in the mountains. We 

 changed our clothes and went out for 

 a stroll before supper. 



How good it did feel to get off that 

 starched shirt and stiff hat, and into 

 easy fitting garments; a lamb shut up 

 half the winter and just turned out for 

 jt a run in the fresh green grass wasn't 



mt | half so frisky as we felt that cool June 



W | ; night. And then the supper (shall I 



I m ever forget it?), served in such a clean 



ir jPlafo and inviting little room, and consist- 



ing of fried brook trout and potatoes, 

 ^ *. |p5 fresh biscuits, and strawberries, too, 



HSP^ rich cream, ice cold. Then after a 



smoke and a short walk we turned in, 

 leaving word to be called at 7 A. M. 



It seemed to me as if I had slept only 

 ten minutes when I heard them knock- 

 ing. The buckboard drove up to the 

 door when we came out from the break- 

 fast room, and in five minutes we were 

 bouncing along toward the mountains, 

 lying blue and dim off in the distance. 



Midday found us in the dooryard of 

 a small farm house, situated on the 

 headwaters of a roaring brook whose 

 waters finally empty into the Hudson, 

 far away. The buckboard lef t w ith the 

 understanding to call for us three days 

 later. We were cordially welcomed by 

 the old miller himself, who led the way 

 to the low old-fashioned poich, whose 

 sole cccupants were two comfortable 

 old rocking chairs and an inverted 

 churn sunning in one corner, along 

 with cornhusk mat immediately in 

 front of the low door. 



We rigged up our rods and after a 

 hasty luncheon started for fish, Pos- 

 sibly 200yds. up stream from the house 

 was located the old sawmill. Above 

 this all the fishing had always previ- 

 ously been done, for below the brook 

 ran through a deep gorge which was 

 utterly impassable. We finally reached 

 the forks of the brook above the mill. 

 Here we separated. E. took the right 

 branch and I the left. Having very 

 poor success I changed fly after fly, 

 cast after cast, light leaders and dark 

 ones, fished on the banks and in the 

 stream, wading up, then down, but try 

 as I would I brought to creel only twelve little ones. 

 Later we met at the farm house and compared notes. He 

 had about thirty, one of which might have weighed a 

 quarter of a pound. 



That night while in bed I secretly resolved to try, next 

 day, the hitherto inaccessible gorge; so when the time 

 for departure came I told E. I would fish at the dam 

 awhile, and if I had luck I would follow the stream (in 

 which direction I did not say). 



After he had left I took a hoe and went back of the 

 barn and dug a tin boxful of "barnyard hackles," then 

 started down stream to explore a little. Well, it was 

 rough climbing and no mistake. The brook roared and 

 tumbled between its precipitous sides 30ft. below me, 

 making one's head swim to look at it steadily, and all 

 along its course immense circular caverns had been 

 worked by the rushing waters. Slowly I plodded along, 

 crawling over fallen trees, around great recks, always on 

 the lookout for a place to descend to the cauldron-like 

 holes; when, after half an hour, I noticed a large hem- 

 lock which had been uprooted and had fallen so that 

 while its roots still held in the bank above, its top rested 

 on the ledge below. Here was my ladder. I tried the 

 tree; it was firm. Then fastening my rod, bait box and 

 reel to my line, lowered them to the ledge, and after a 

 descent more laughable than elegant, soon stood beside 

 the pool. I lighted my pipe and proceeded to get ready, 

 then I carefully crept along to within a few feet of the 

 edge of the ledge. To my left the brook dashed into this 

 cauldron-like pool between two immense rocks, and the 

 water white with foam swirled and eddied round and 

 round, finally overflowing at the lower end into the next 

 basin. I could not see the bottom, but judged it to be 

 loft. deep. I carefully baited my No. 6 sproat with a big 

 worm, dropped it in the flume, letting it float as it would. 

 It followed my side of the pool, swung to the other side, 

 then slowly began to sink, when flash! my tip was jerked 

 almost into the water. I peeked over the edge; my line 

 showed that my victim had taken refuge under a sunken 

 ledge of rock on the opposite side of the pool. I slowly 



