July 7, 1893.] 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



seeks to hide motionless, and it is the ear of the squirrel 

 which is often its undoing; that and the uncontrollable 

 squirrel curiosity. I allowed my friend to gaze for some 

 moments at a rather ill-clad lounger, and then I tossed a 

 twig at him, Presto! He had vanished again. This 

 time I could not find him at all, and finally concluded 

 that he had gone into an old nest which lay high \ip in 

 the tree. I went a little closei- and did something which 

 made him run out of the nest. Just what this something 

 was J. B. H., who showed me how to do it, tells me I 

 must not tell, as it would enable too many hunters to 

 overcome one of the best natural defenses of the squirrel, 

 and so work harm to the family. Anyhow, the squirrel 

 ran out. This time he was frightened beyond the pitch 

 of curiosity, and ran over the boughs ' to another tree, 

 where ho got behind a limb, head and all, and lay there, 

 1 doubt not. in a state of abject terror. At this I took 

 pity on him, explained that I would not hurt him for the 

 world, being already so largely in his debt, and so set on 

 my way, a little the wiser in squirrel vpays and the ways 

 of nature for the benefit of squirrel kind. 



When the wind blows hara we go down to the old mill 

 pond and rarely fail to take a big bass or so, over 4lbs. 

 in weight, usually losing about three to every one we get 

 into the boat. I never saw so many big bass in such a 

 limited area of water as there are among these floating 

 islands. They have a lot of fun with us, scare us nearly 

 out of the boat by the savage splash they make when 

 they jump on our frogs, run down in the weeds, break 

 our lines, tear loose, cavort, rear, pitch and raise trouble 

 generally. It is very hard fishing water, and although 

 we have the best tackle that can be bought it is not good 

 enough for these big bass in this weedy water. 



The fact is, a bait-casting line which is even decently 

 good does not yet exist, so far as I know. Before start- 

 ing on this trip we visited every tackle store in Chicago 

 •and got an example of each firm's idea of a bait-casting 

 line, the whole covering, as I suppose, the entire list of 

 such lines now manufactured. A good one does not 

 exist in the lot. We have them costing up to $2.50 for 

 50yds. The best one of the lot, strange to say, is a 50- 

 cent line which we stumbled across in a department 

 store and bought for a joke. This line withstood the 

 wear and tear of heavy bait-casting for several days and 

 was still strong, though not coarser than some of the 

 others. The life of the other lines ran from one to three 

 or four days. All the lines were dried each evening and 

 reviersed daily on the reel. 



Tackle dealers who sell anglers a casting line at 75 

 cents or $1, knowing that the line will rot or wear to 

 worthlessness before the end of the second day, have got 

 plenty of nerve along with them. Still I do not know 

 that they can do much better. This is a question for the 

 manufacturers, not the dealer. Who is tiie raw silk line 

 maker who can give a bait-caster a practical line which 

 will last a week, and not rot so that a heavy fish will 

 break it at the first sharp strain? Yesterday we lost two 

 magnificent bass, furious, big fellows, which just simply 

 walked on ofl; with the line. One broke a line by twist- 

 ing it in the weeds, a favorite game of the bass tribe, and 

 the other broke the line at the leader knot square on the 

 spring of the rod in clear water. The lines seem to cut 

 themselves at the knot, but when tested develop flaws 

 and break almost anywhere. They are strong when 

 new, and they are strong when shrunken and dry, but 

 you can't fish with a dry line, and the best of those of- 

 fered break after a few days' wetting. The fish that 

 escapes by his own skill or strength, or through fault of 

 the angler is not to be mourned; but to lose a good fish 

 through defective tackle, when that tackle is the best 

 purchasable in its class, is something which grieves an 

 angler's heart beyond possibility of explanation or com- 

 forting. We have lost seven big baes through broken 

 lines this week, and the raw silk men have our bitterest 

 thanks for it. 



A wonderful country is this lake region of Waukesha, 

 Racine and Walworth counties of Wisconsin. Some of 

 the sheets of water we have discovered in our wander- 

 ings have been simply delightful in their beauty. Gil- 

 lard's Lake, a couple of miles across the wood from us, 

 is apparently untouched and wild, girt all about by 

 forest, and headed by a somber tamarack swamp. Lake 

 Beulah we visited for a day, a vast inland sea, 20 miles 

 of shore line, and all encircled with summer cottages 

 and choice building lots for sale for a consideration. 

 They say this is second to Lake Geneva. Better looking 

 fishing water we have not found, but it was sadly disap- 

 pointing, for our two boats only took 5 bass. The deadly 

 DuUfrog brought in one 4 pounder, and this seemed to 

 occasion some surprise. 



In short, man has done all he could to tear down what 

 nature has wrought. Continuous ice fishing for the 

 market has ruined all these lakes. It takes expert work, 

 and plenty of it, of the hardest kind, to get a decent 

 string of game fish together. The lakes are regularly 

 worked each winter, though the summer resort men on 

 the larger lakes will tell you that no winter fishing is 

 done. One man regularly fishes the mill-pond at Muk- 

 wonago in the winter, and they tell me he often catches 

 lOOibs. a day. Others fish with more or less regularity, 

 and not a lake is free from it. Summer and winter the 

 fish are given no rest. In the last ten years the falling 

 off of the supply has been very great. The farmers tell 

 me that the hshing is no longer good, but eight or ten 

 years ago they "could catch all they wanted." Some- 

 body has wanted too much. 



A special law of the last Assembly of Wisconsin makes 

 the close season for all kinds of fish open March 1 and 

 close June 15, and permits only fishing with the hook and 

 line. If this law could be made to cover the winter also, 

 say beginning at Nov. 1, it would mean money to the 

 people of this region and preservation of the fish in a 

 lake system which for beauty and natural productiveness 

 in fish life is not to be surpassed in all this section. 



It may be asked, how can any one know and how do I 

 know that more money would follow a better law? That 

 is easy to answer under proof. This morning a boat 

 pulled up at our spring, and a young lady paused for a 

 cup of water. Later inquiry developed that this was a 

 lady stenographer from Chicago, boarding for two weeks 

 at a f armnouse over the hill. This single specimen of a 

 genus is enough. The lady stenographer will not be 

 denied, and God bless her, who would shorten her all too 

 short vacation, or wish her away from the pleasantest 

 lake on earth? Still, this single specimen means that 

 Chicago will now go 86 miles north for its modest, com- 

 mon-people vacation, instead of stopping at 55 miles. 



The index of the flood does not purely betoken the full 

 character of all to follow. There are all sorts of vacation 

 people. Most of those who go North to the woods and 

 lakes want a little fishing, where they can catch some 

 fish without becoming past masters in the art of angling. 

 Shall this be in lovely Waukesha county, or shall it be 

 further north, or east, or west? This is the question for 

 Waukesha county to answer, .and to answer quickly, for it 

 is not the habit of Chicago to wait. One lazy market 

 fisher, and a lot of farmers who fish in the winter because 

 they can catch more fish then — just what value does their 

 catch represent to the commonwealth, or what principle 

 do they uj)hold? Offset that agaiust Chicago summer 

 dollars," Lake Beulah men, Mukwonago men, and add to 

 that the dearer and more beneficent policy of protection, 

 which now is wise and needful, and then see how it looks 

 when you come to look at it. E. Houaii. 



A SIDE ISSUE, BUT NO TROUT. 



"Across tlie window pane 



U pours and pours; 

 And swift and wide, 

 With a muddy tide, 



Like a river down tfite gutie'r roars 

 The rain, the welcome rain." 



—Longfelhm. 



But it was not welcome to Stephens and I that May 

 morning as we eat in the dining room eating our break- 

 fast at 4:30 o'clock, because as Whittier sings: 



"Four weeks the clouds have raked the hills 

 And vexed the vales with raining, 

 And all the woods were sad with mist 

 And all the brooks complaining." 



And we were up thus early to start on a two-weeks' 

 outing east of Ely, in northwestern Minnesota, and the 

 rain did not even stop to give us a fair start. But start 

 we did, and all that forenoon, as the cars carried us 

 toward Duluth, the rain streaked across the windows 

 and beat upon the roof of the coach, and we emerged 

 from the Union depot at Dtiluth into a regular downpour. 

 After dinner we went to make inquiry about the guide 

 and some other men who were going in on the Iron 

 Range east of Ely with us. We learned that the guide 

 was not there and would not be down from the Nesaba 

 Range for three days. What should we do? "Let's go 

 over in northern Wisconsin for a couple of days and try 

 for some trout," said Stephens. "I'm with you," I 

 replied. "Then let's go and dig some worms, we have 

 just about time before the train goes," he said. In a few 

 minutes we were at w^ork in a vacant lot on First street, 

 with the rain beating down, digging bait with a shovel 

 we had borrowed from a livery barn. 



By the time we had enough"worms we were both pretty 

 well wet through, but we were in time for the Ashland 

 train and in a few minutes were whirling away through 

 the Superiors, across the Nemadji which was at flood 

 tide and the color of a very muddy mud puddle, in the 

 strong current of which a young lad had accidentally 

 found a watery grave the day before; on we went into 

 the pine woods, crossing the American, the Poplar and 

 many lesser streams, while the rain still came down, and 

 the low hung clouds seemed to sweep the tops of the trees. 

 The famous Brule was left behind and here it dawned 

 upon us that our ax was left behind also. It was 

 wrapped up with our canvas boat, which we had left in 

 the baggage room at the depot in Duluth, only taking 

 our tent, blankets and some provisions with us, What 

 were we to do? We would be left at a siding with not a 

 house within miles, in a heavy rain and without an ax to 

 cut a tent jjole, drive a peg or cut a stick of wood. We 

 discussed the situation, and concluded we would get 

 along somehow — we always do manage to get along 

 somehow. We just came to this conclusion as Iron 

 River was reached. A boom has recently struck this 

 place. Last fall when we were through it, three or four 

 houses and a hotel comprised the town ; within six weeks 

 over half a hundred buildings have been put up and the 

 plants for three large sawmills brought in, and this is but 

 the beginning. The main street is lined for quite a dis- 

 tance on either side with brand new business blocks — 

 some finished, others nearly so, and all untouched as yet 

 by paint. The street is so thickly studded with stumps 

 that no vehicle, unless it were a wheel-barrow or a hand 

 cart, could get along. 



Upon the depot platform we found the ro»dmaster of 

 the division, who said "a few trout were being caught, 

 or rather were before the rain, and some fishing was 

 done in the Brule in defiance of the law, some in Iron 

 River, and several pretty good catches had been made in 

 Pike Creek." 



"Have you an ax?" was our anxious inquiry. 



"No, all of our axes are in the section house at Top- 

 side, but if you get off at Ino get into the pump house if 

 you can, and make yourselves comfortable. " 



Ino was soon reached, and in the gathering darkness 

 and pouring rain, surrounded by the sighing, moaning 

 pines, with "Good luck to you," "Success," and "Hope 

 you'll fill your creels with trout," from the trainmen 

 wafted to us as the train moved away, we took a look at 

 our surroundings. There stood the water tank and here 

 the little pump house; the former full of water, the latter 

 securely locked. We tried the door, we tried the win- 

 dows, but all in vain, and the rain just came down in 

 sheets of wet. At length we did get a window open, and 

 putting our dunnage inside, crawled through after, and 

 found ourselves within a dry room, still warm from the 

 fire left by the pump man. This was unexpected good 

 luck, and with a roaring fire in the stove supper was 

 soon ready and eaten, a bed made alongside the stove, 

 and two would-be trout fishers were lying side by side 

 fast asleep, from which they were awakened several 

 times by squirrels running about overhead, and by the 

 rushing wind and angry swish of rain upon the roof and 

 against the windows. 



Morning dawned bright and clear, with song of bird, 

 whisper of breeze among the pines, and air fragrant 

 with the odor of the pine trees. After breakfast, while 

 Stephens put our dunnage outside and cleared up the 

 room, I wrote a note to the pump man and laid it where 

 he would see it the first thing when he came in. The 

 note was as follows : 



Deaii Mr, Pump Master— You will see that some one 

 has been in your house. We came in to get out of the 



ratu. We should not have done so if the road master 

 had not told us to. We have done no harm save loosen- 

 ing the fastenings to one window. We are very much 

 obliged for the shelter, and if it is ever in our power will 

 do as much for you. Very sincerely. 



Two Trout Fishers. 



In high spirits, we set off, going; down the track a ways, 

 then turning directly south through the woods toward 

 Pine Creek. The dampness under our feet ought to have 

 dampened our high spirits a little, but it did not. Here 

 and there we came upon patches of snow, and occasion- 

 ally I saw some trailing arbutus, with clusters of buds, 

 but no flowers as yet. Our first feeling of discourage- 

 ment came when we reached the creek and stood in 

 dismay, wondering at what we saw. Was this our 

 beautiful little trout stream, from which we had lured so 

 many of the bejeweled, rainbow-tinted beauties? Was 

 this roaring, muddy torrent, reaching high up the banks, 

 and in many places overflowing them, covering rocks 

 and stumps and logs that to us were landmarks, witness- 

 ing to some triumph of skill on our part over the wary 

 trout? Was this the stream where 



"Cool summer winds our healed brows; 

 Blue river through the green 

 Of clustering pines, retreshed the eyes 

 Which all too much have seen;" 



where 



"Fringing the stream at every turn 

 Swung low tlie waving fronds of fern; 

 From stony cleft and mossy sod 

 Pale asters sprang and golden rod." 



Even so, but our hopes died with us, for no trout would 

 we get in that maddened and surging stream ; and none 

 did we get. We faithfully tried, but all in vain. Neither 

 worm nor fly had any eftect. The only trout seen were 

 two that Stephens saw trying to leap the rapids at the old 

 dam where we ate our lunch. We wended our way 

 through the grand old woods back to the water tank, 

 packed up om- dunnage and sat down to wait for the 

 Pacific express. While we were waiting three tramps 

 came along, eyeing us sharply as they passed. A short 

 distance down the track they stopped, and after a con- 

 sultation one of them came back and asked "If we were 

 going to stop the train?" "Yes," said Stephens, and the 

 fellow rejoined his comrades. "Those fellows are going to 

 try and steal a ride on the train," remarked Stephens. 

 And sure enough they did, for at Iron River we saw one 

 of them standing in the crowd on the depot platform. 

 We reached Duluth in time for an eight o'clock dinner. 

 We put in the next forenoon along the shore and out on 

 the light house pier watching the big steamers come 

 through the ice which covered the lake for a long dis- 

 tance outside of Minnesota Point. The lake at Duluth 

 had been free of ice for two weeks, and it was supposed 

 that it was gone for good, but two days before our com- 

 ing a heavy east wind had brought a great field of ice 

 back, nearly blocking the port. 



The day before a ghastly find had been made — a sail 

 boat with a broken mast was observed out in the ice. A 

 tug went to it and found the bodies of three men lying in 

 the boat frozen stiff. They were from some port on the 

 north shore, but how they came to be caught in the ice 

 and meet their deaths will never be known on earth. As 

 we came along the canal we saw two boys in a boat troll- 

 ing. 



"Do you catch fish here?" asked Stephens, 

 "Yes." 



"What kind?" 

 "Pickerel." 

 "Big ones?" 



"Yes, sir. Last Sunday I caught one as long as I." 



The speaker was about 3^ or 4ft, long, so I had grave 

 doubts as to his truthfulness. He was a stocky little 

 fellow with ragged clothes and a torn hat, and between 

 his lips he held a cigarette at which he was puffing with 

 great vim, a character study for a Dickens or Miss Mur- 

 free. After a sumptuous dinner we put in the time as 

 best we could until a quarter past 3, when we boarded 

 the train for Ely and the Iron Range, intending to take a 

 canoe at Ely, or rather our canvas boat, and go seventy- 

 five miles east to Gun Flint Lake. Thus ended our "side 

 issue" after trout. Myron Cooley, 



Detkott City, Minn. 



OLD PETE. 



A FIELD MBMOBY. 



By tangled brier and grasses dun, 



With willing and untiring feet. 

 No more you course the fields with me 



To flush the quail. Old Pete. 



No more we skirt the stubble dry. 



Nor track the brood through nodding wheat; 

 Our path across the yellow rye 



Is grown with weeds, Old Pete. 



Our dew-kissed footsteps come no more 

 To mark the woodcock's damp retreat. 



Nor follow up the reedy shore 

 Behind the snipe. Old Pete. 



The partridge In his hemlock bed 



No longer wakes in fear to meet 

 Our faultless eyes and winged lead. 



That seldom failed, Old Pete. 



The spring beneath the leaning oak 

 At noon still bubbles, cool and sweet, 



As when I rested there to smoke 

 And you to drink. Old Pete. 



There's something whispers, trusty friend. 

 Your brown eyes waiting yet shall greet 



Me when my lonely hunt's at end, 

 Dear faithful dog, Old Pete. 



Harry Prescott Beach. 



Mahomet and the Mountain. 



There are a good many Mahomets who cannot go to the moun- 

 tain, but who can do what the original Mahomet could not, have 

 the mountain come to them, simply by subscribing for that 

 charming periodical. Forest and Stream. Its pen pictures of 

 sylvan scenes and sports are the next best things to the real enjoy- 

 ment of nature itseli.— Baltimore Methoist. 



