182 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Sept. 3, 1893. 



IN THE HEART OF THE SIERRA. 



My outing for 1893 is a tiling of the past. Its incidents 

 are duly labeled and pigeon-holed in memory's safe, along 

 with those of the many, many by-gone years. Just how 

 many years outings are thus stored away I dare not ac- 

 knowledge, even to myself, lest I grow melancholy. I 

 only know that to take them out, brush the dust off, and 

 overhaul their contents, constitutes a pleasure that never 

 palls upon repetition. And I also know that when the 

 y&ar comes, as come it must, when increasing age and in- 

 firmity shall prohibit the usual summer holiday, that upon 

 these past memories must philosophy depend to argue me 

 into reconcilement. 



This was my eleventh consecutive annual trip to Echo 

 Lake, in the heart of the Sierra, where every mountain 

 peak and valley, tree and shrub, rock and chff , lake and 

 cliff, lake and stream, pleasure and hardship, have be- 

 come doubly dear by force of association. My old part- 

 ner B and two friends from Sacramento composed our 

 party; and from the day we joined foi-ces on the train, 

 on the way to Truckee, till we parted, we had a royal, 

 roaring good time, albeit we caught but few fish, and 

 drank no whisky. 



We went in too early, for such a cold, backward spring 

 has not been experienced in the Sierra for years, and too 

 much snow and too cold water spoiled the fishing. Our 

 boatmen, who ]3receded us by several days, said that the 

 ice did not break up until June 27, and as we started on 

 July 9 the water had not lost its icy chill, and no fly- 

 fishing was to be had. And be it known that our party 

 were all fly-fishermen and despised the catching of trout 

 by trolling. Of course we caught some, enough to keep 

 our table supplied by the latter method, as it was a case of 

 "groundhog or no meat," but it "went agin the grain." 



I am going to give no detailed account of our trip, but 

 just some disjointed notes upon that, and other subjects, 

 that have occurred to my mind since my return. 



Lake Tahoe is considered one of the most beautiful of 

 the whole world's most beautiful lakes. Its waters are 

 as placid and sparkling as the diamond, as purple as the 

 amethyst, as blue as the sapphire and as green as the 

 emerald — just as you may chance to view it. But no 

 tongue can tell or pen describe its glories. It is like a 

 beautiful woman, its charms must be seen in order to be 

 realized. Its devotees this season did not let hard times 

 or Chicago's "big show" deter them from their annual 

 visit, but instead came themselves and brought their 

 friends. And as a reward the lake has never yielded such 

 an abundance of trout for the past fifteen years as it has 

 done this season. Tons upon tons of trout have been 

 shipped away to the cities by professional fishermen, be- 

 sides those catight by tourists, and stUl they continue to 

 bite as freely as ever, even up to this present writing, as 

 I am informed. 



A Tahoe trout cannot be caught upon the fly, however, 

 and so I have never taken one from its waters. I prefer 

 Echo, where, if the angler is lucky and strikes it just 

 right, he can have some of the finest sport in the world. 

 One. or two such occasions I will mention. 



In the summer of 1888 my friend B. and myself went 

 out on Upper Echo Lake, during a thunder shower, and 

 caught 76 trout that weighed, in all, 481bs. They were 

 all caught upon the fly, with 8-ounce rods, and the work 

 was all done in one hour and a half. Two, three, and on 

 one occasion four trout were secured at one cast. The 

 occasion was worth waiting a month for. In the summer 

 of '91 my friend had to leave three days before I was win- 

 ing to go out, and on the morning of his departure I went 

 down the lake early to see him off. After he had bid. me 

 good-bye I returned to the boat, and as a nice ripple was 

 upon the water, requested my boatman to row me slowly 

 around the outlet (this was in Lower, or Big Echo) while 

 I made a few casts. My flies had scarcely touched the 

 surface ere I had hooked a a-pound trout, and in just one 

 hour and twenty minutes I had captured 21 trout that 

 weighed 451bs, and then I quit — had to, in fact, because I 

 could not get another bite. That was the fastest and 

 most furious fishing that I ever did in the same length of 

 time in forty years of fly-fishing— and I never expect to 

 equal it. TJie fish were all about the same average size — 

 a little over 21bs. — and Avere fighters from the word "go;" 

 and when the fray was over I sat down exhausted fi-om 

 the strain and excitement, and was glad the fight was 

 encled. 



I have a sad tale to tell about the doings of a chipmimk. 

 I had always held a very high opinion of a chipmimk's 

 morality and general good behavior, but now I suspect 

 the whole tribe. I caught one of the race in flagrante 

 delictu, and all his kin must suffer suspicion on account 

 of his disgraceful crime. 



One day while walking across the strip of land separat- 

 ing Upper and Lower Echo, while our boatman jjulled 

 the boat up through the shallow connecting stream, B. 

 and I came upon a couple of jimcos in sore distress. 

 Their chirps of grief and anger were loud and incessant, 

 while they made constant threatening descents among 

 some low brush by the lake shore. We suspected snakes 

 and went to the rescue, when, much to our amazement, 

 a large red-headed chipmunk, of the kind known as 

 Towusend's chipmunk {Tamias Icmnsendii) ran out of the 

 juncos' nest with a half -grown bird in its mouth. We 

 gave active chase and the little scamp was very loth to 

 drop his prey. We got too hot upon his trail, however, 

 and he had to leave it behind. The bird was dead, bitten 

 through the brain. We hunted out the nest and found 

 that he had eaten one or two of the others, and there was 

 still one left in the nest imtouched. The next day the 

 nest was empty and the old birds had left the vicinity, so 

 I suppose the little bloodthirsty scoundrel had returned 

 and completed his murderous work. I did not think it of 

 "little stripy!" I did not, indeed. 



Owing to the prohibitory law upon the killing of deer 

 during the past two years, this game has greatly increased ( 

 since the destructive winter of '88-9. I noted .at that } 

 time in Forest akd Stream the fearful loss of life in the 

 Sierra Nevada among the deer and plumed quail. They I 



have both recuperated considerably, but the prohibition 

 on deer shooting ought to have been extended another 

 two years at least. Of course the law was continually 

 broken by campers and residents in the mountains, but 

 still it stopped the slaughter by the despicable skin 

 butchers, which was decimating our deer at a fearful 

 ra,te. Even for the respite they have had, the deer might 

 say to the California Legislature of '91: 



'Tor this relief much thanks; 'tis bitter cold, 

 And I am sick at heart."— IJaHiZef. 



After spending two weeks at Echo our San Francisco 

 friends returned home, and B, and I remained for another 

 week. The fishing improved a little, but still the trout did 

 not rise freely, and we gave it up for this year and came 

 down to Sugar Loaf, on the old PlacerviUe and Carson 

 grade. Here we had some excellent stream fishing on 

 South Fork of the American and its branches, and spent 

 another very pleasant week. The trout had just begun to 

 rise freely in the streams, and we made fine catches every 

 day. 



I know that it takes considerable hardihood for any man 

 to ofi:er a new fly to the fraternity in this age of fly-fishing, 

 and yet I have had such success with one of my own 

 device that I feel as though I must describe it. Prelimi- 

 nary to that, though, I must tell how I came to think of 

 it. It was in the summer of 1886 that I found myself, 

 along with my friend B., on the headwaters of the 

 American. We had both whipped and whipped in vain, 

 and were sitting by the water eating lunch and discussing 

 the "cussedness" of the ways of trout, when I saw a good 

 one rise and gather in some floating object. Several times 

 I noted a like occurrence while we sat there, and I won- 

 dered what bait he was rising at, but could not determine. 

 I noted, however, that it was a reddish brown object with 

 a hint of gold in it. I tried cow-dungs, brown-backles, 

 cock-y-bondhus, red-ants and everything else of Hke 

 nature that I had in my book, but without much success. 

 At last I secured one of the floating objects, and found it 

 to be a somewhat hairy caterpillar, with a salmon-colored 

 body, black head, and brownish hairs. This I placed upon 

 my hook e.nd immediately caught a trout. "Aha! my 

 dainty beauties, that is what you want, eh?" said I. ' 'Well, 

 I'll try and accommodate you another year if I can study 

 up a combination to vsuit." Now, I am" not much of a fly- 

 tyer myself, but when forced can make a stagger at it. I 

 therefore kept the matter in mind, and was on the look- 

 out for suitable material, and at last struck it. 



This I found in the outer vane or web of the primaries 

 of the red-shafted woodpecker or flicker {Colapfes cafer). 

 This I stripped off the feather, wound it upon the hook, 

 put on a head of peacock herl, and there was my "bug." 

 I made two or three in my rough way, and the next sea- 

 son found the composition very killing, I then sent to 

 J. S. Benn, of San Francisco, our crack fly-tier of the 

 coast, for a supply, and have kept them in stock ever 

 since, and have supplied many of my friends with sam- 

 ples, and have almost always received good accoimts of 

 them. 



I call the fly the golden caterpillar, but think the name 



of "flicker" would be better. Benn calls it the bug, 



putting my name in the blank space, but I don't like it 

 and object. 



A laughable thing occurred at my expense, in procur- 

 ing the first supply of feathers to send to Benn, which I 

 think I must relate. 



After testing the flies of my own manufacture and 

 finding them successful, I determined to secure some 

 flickers on my return from the mountains. It was late 

 in the summer, and but a few of the birds were to be 

 found round my house, and I hired a boy, who was quite 

 a dove hunter, to procure me two or three, promising 

 him half a dollar for them. 



One day I had been absent on professional business, 

 and on my return in the evening I sat down to dinner. 

 There was a covered dish placed in front of me, and upon 

 raising its cover I found seven dark-colored, scrawny- 

 looking birds of some unknown species lying thei'ein. 



"Great Scott, Avife, what are those creatures?" I ex- 

 claimed. 



"Why, they are the birds Jo. S, shot for you," she 

 answered, "and I paid him half a dollar for them, which 

 he said you promised him." 



Comment was unnecessary. It was my own fault. I 

 had not thought to mention it to my wife, and when the 

 birds came she jjaid for without seeing them and the 

 servant cooked them for dinner, having first carefully 

 scalded the feathers off and thrown them into the refuse 

 bam-el, where the bodies soon followed. 



For the last five years I have observed a pair of even- 

 ing grosbeaks at a point on the Carson and PlacerviUe 

 grade, at an elevation of about 5,500ft. They were 

 always to be seen around the same locality, in the month 

 of July, and I was satisfied they were breeding there. I 

 had no opportunity of stopping to investigate, so paid no 

 particidar attention to the fact. This summer, upon my 

 retm-n, I saw the birds in the same place, accompanied 

 by two of their young, which were just out of their nest 

 and scarcely able to fly. The locality where they breed 

 is on the north side of the canon of the American in a 

 heavy growth of pines and firs. If the nest and eggs of 

 this species still remain unknown, as I believe they are, 

 1 am satisfied that specimens could be procured in that 

 locality next summer. 



On ray return home I found my accumulated numbers 

 of Forest and Stream awaiting me. In them I note 

 some articles upon salmon fishing in Monterey Bay which 

 are very interesting. I was informed of this fishing ten 

 years ago by the late W. P. Willard of San Francisco, a 

 gentleman who was well known on this coast during his 

 lifetime, but who has now joined the great majority. Mr. 

 Willard was an enthusiastic fisherman, and a true'friend 

 to all brothers of the angle, and when he had found a 

 good thing was free to impart it to his friends. He in- 

 formed me of this fishing and advised me to go there if I 

 wanted some exciting sport. I have never availed myself 

 of his advice, I am sorry to say. 



It was in the latter days of June, 1888, that Mr. Willard. 

 caught his salmon at Monterey, and he caught them on 

 his lOoz. Leonard rod, with an ivory squid bait. 



Every year since that I have intended to go there and 

 try the king of the Salmonida?, but then 'tis said that 

 "Hell is paved with good intentions." I suppose mine 

 form part of the pavement, Arefak. 

 Auburn, Aug. 15. 



WAYS OF THE RUFFED GROUSE. 



"Partridge they call him by our Northern streams and pheasant by 

 the Delaware."— jBr(/a7ii. 



There is not in existence perhaps a bird that knows 

 more of the surroundings ki the places he inliabits than 

 the ruffed grouse. He hears, he sees everything. Noth- 

 ing escapes his notice. This is his home; he Lives about 

 here through all the seasons of the rolling year. Seed 

 time and harvest, winter and summer. He knows well 

 also every wood, every covert, thicket and stream in the 

 vicinity. When compelled to leave this Y)\ace he has 

 several select spots to which he flies for refuge. One of 

 these retreats may be in a dark and gloomy nook under 

 the umbrageous foliage of the woods, or it may be in a 

 clump of dense and impenetrable evergreens or among 

 the witch hazels or amid the innumerable and inacces- 

 sible saplings of the gentle sloping woodland, or it may be 

 in the open wood. The sportsman will soon come to learn 

 the location of these spots by carefully watching the 

 flight of the bird, but the grouse also will soon become 

 aware of that fact after he has been disturbed a few 

 times and will go no more there, but direct his flight else- 

 where. The grouse never flies without knowing exactly 

 where he is going; and when he starts on his vpay nothing 

 will turn him from his course, for in my experience I have 

 seen but one bird change his line of flight. I once saw a 

 grouse crossing a field fly directly over a man and a team 

 of oxen plowing. 



But the ruffed grouse practices at times a mode of 

 flight that is extremely deceptive as to his destination. 

 In the hollows he will fly straight ahead through the mid- 

 dle of them for 200 to 300yds. and then take a wide turn 

 of about 40yds., and coming back the same distance, 

 alight on the brow of the hill. He is now in a position 

 where he can see the sportsman approach and can watch 

 his movements, and where he would scarcely be looked 

 for. If discovered, however, he flies along the top of the 

 hill, keeping well out of gunshot. Such birds are hard to 

 find again, and the mystery is where they go- 

 As the grouse resorts to strategy to escape from man, he 

 is also compeUed to do the same to save himself from his 

 other enemies. I recollect being in the woods one morn- 

 ing on a pleasant day in October and seeing a hawk sail- 

 ing above a large hemlock tree. Approaching the spot, I 

 discovered near the top on a limb, about four feet from 

 the body of the tree, a ruffed grouse. The hawk con- 

 tinued for some time his circling movements, when he 

 began gradually to descend. The grouse seemed lost, 

 when as the hawk passed near, and to the opposite side of 

 the tree, the grouse like a bolt shot from the limb, and 

 flying only as a grouse can fly, made for the dense cover, 

 which he reached in safety. When the hawk came round 

 and found that the bird had flown, he rapidly ascended 

 and was soon lost to sight. . " Dorp. 



Schenectady, N. Y. 



DANVIS FOLKS.— XIII. 



The Shoemaker's Ghost. 



Solon BrIGQS heaved a contented sigh when he had estab- 

 lished himself in his favorite seat, with his back against 

 the wall and his left kneenmrsed in his locked hands. 



"What was 't you was a-goin' tu tell t'other night, 

 Uncle Lisher, when we was discoursin' consarnin' speerite 

 an' apperagotions an' Antwine come a-protrudin' in his 

 Canady stories?" 



"Lemme see," said Uncle Lisha, stimulating his brain 

 with the point of an awl. "Oh, yes, I've got a holt 

 on 't." 



There was an expectant lull in the conversation, while 

 Uncle Lisha meditatively splashed a tap in the little tub 

 beside him. At last he said: 



"I scase ever wet a piece o' luther in that aire tub 

 'thaout thinkin' o' ol' Uncle Ebenezer Hill, Jozeff's uncle, 

 'at it nseter belong tu. He was a shoemaker, an' a 

 turrible hones' man, as shoemakers mos' gen'ally is, Ann 

 Twine." 



"Sometam dey was be," Antoine laGOnicftUy com- 

 mented. 



"Most allers, an' he wan't no exception tu the rule. 

 When he died an' his things was sol' oft' tu vandue, I bid 

 off his kit an' this aire tub 'mongst 'em, an' it most allers 

 makes me think o' Uncle Eben." He let the tap soak 

 while he scraped out the heel of his pipe with a crooked 

 awl and filled it with a fresh charge of tobacco, with a 

 deliberation painful to his audience. 



"Wal, tliere was a man 'at ondertook tu cheat him arter 

 he was dead. Ye see, the way on 't was. Uncle Ebenezer 

 had got tu be tollable well off when he died, an' when his 

 'state come tu be settled Bijer Johns begun tu sarch 

 raound tu see 'f he couldn't bring some claim agin Uncle 

 Ebenezer fer hides 'at he'd sol' him. 



"Wal, when the commissioners sot, he kerried it in 'a 

 prompt 's a major an' the commissioners said they guessed 

 they'd hafter 'low it. AVhen he come hum, his womern 

 wanted tu know where he'd been an' what arter, an' he 

 bed tu tell her. 'Why,' s' she, 'I didn't 'spose Eben owed 

 younothin'.' But he said women didn't remember nothin' 

 an' didn't allers know all 'baout eVything though they 

 consaited they did, an' he went off tu feed his hawg, a 

 shooin' the hens off'm the swill barril an' a-dippin' aout 

 the swill an' a-puttin' on the kiver kinder keerlesa, bein' 

 'at he wan't althogether easy in his mind. 



"Bimeby it come dinner time an' he soddaown an' eat 

 his dinner 'thaout no gret of a appetite t' eat, an' then he 

 went an' lay daown on the settee clus tu the open winder, 

 but he couldn't git a nap on 'caount o' them hides that 

 wa'n't never raal ones, a risin' up continual afore his eyes 

 when they was shet er open. 



"Bimeby he heard a n'ise, juUuk sloshin' luther in a 

 tub, kerslosh, kerslosh, kerslosh, an' then whack, whack, 

 whack, julluk hammerin' a tap on a lapstun. 



" 'Hopy Ann,' says he tu his wife, a Jiftiu' up his head 

 an' harkin' juUiik a hawg in a cornfiel. 'wliat's that aire 

 n'ise'r" 'I don't hear nothin',' says she, a stoppin' clatterin' 

 the dishes an' lis'nin', 'what is 't'/' 



" 'It's a shoemaker tu work,' says he, 'an' there it comes 

 agin.' An' up he got, scairt 's a strange cat. 'Hopy Ann,' 

 says he, 'hev you ever hearn tell o' spirits walkin' in broad 

 daylight?' 



" 'Bijer, are you clean aouten your head?' says she. 



" 'No, I hatnt. But if ever I heard LTncle Eben Hill a 

 sozzlin' a tap an' hammerin' on 't, I hear it naow.' " 



"Haow can he do dat, One' Lasha? Dat liol' shoemaket 

 don't keep for do beesiness w'en hee'll be dead, ant it?'' 

 interrupted Antoine, 



