July 21, 1894.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
31 
A Day's Shooting in the Georgia Mountains. 
Macon, Georgia.— Wishing to send home to our fami- 
lies a string of game, my shooting partner and I decided 
that next day we would try for a bag that would be a 
surprise to those at home, and give them an idea of the 
good times we are having away off up in the mountains. 
Just after day of the morning following we were 
awakened by the drumming of the pheasant in the laurels 
above our camp, which was situated at the base of one of 
those many unnamed mountains of the Blue Eidge. 
Being unable to sleep longer with this tantalizing noise in 
our ears, we soon had our negro up making a pot of hot 
coffee to limber us up before starting out. We were soon 
out and away. Before we had gone 200yds. from camp, 
our old dog had up an old cock which we knocked down. 
The whir of wings and crack of our guns soon; woke up 
the sleepy old mountains and after a circuit of about three 
miles we returned to camp with five pheasants and a 
woodcock that our dog had put up in a swampy place we 
crossed. After breakfast and a little time to get our 
wind from the early tramp, we were away for the wheat 
valley for the partridge. Wishing to have a limit to our 
bag we carried along an old countryman with a big split 
basket, agreeing to quit as soon as the basket was full. We 
were soon on the wheat fields at work in earnest. Our 
dogs, a pointer and an Irish setter, were soon hard at it, 
and the report of our guns would hardly die away among 
the echoes of the mountains above us, before the sound 
would be renewed again among the rocks. The sport 
lasted uninterrupted until noon', when our countryman an- 
nounced that his basket could hold no more. Keeping to 
our resolve, hard as it was to do so, we left the birds scat- 
tered all around us in the field and made our way back to 
camp. 
That afternoon on the road to the station could be seen 
a long, lank mountaineer with a string of five pheasants, 
one woodcock and seventy-three partridges, the result of 
our morning's work, on its way to our homes. 
Johnnie. 
An Idaho Game Resort. 
Me,. K. E, Hopf, who was formerly known as a breeder 
of St. Bernards, has undertaken the hotel business in 
Idaho; and writes to us in enthusiastic terms of the game 
and fish attractions of Arangee, where is situated the 
house advertised by Mr. Hopf in our Sportsmen's Resort 
columns. Mr. Hopf has prepared a pamphlet for the 
sportsman tourist which he will send on request. 
WAS IT THE FOOL-KILLER'S CHANCE? 
Baltimore, July 12.— In company with Mr. Fred Tal- 
bott, member of Congress from my district, I left Balti- 
more June 15 by the Baltimore & Ohio R.R. for a trout- 
fishing trip in West Virginia. At Washington we were 
joined by Mr. John D. Alderson, M. C. from the Third 
District of West Virginia, a man of large proportions 
physically and with more humor to the pound (he weighs 
260) than any other man whom I have ever met. We 
reached the end of our railroad journey Saturday evening 
and had good, comfortable entertainment at the hotel. 
Through the kindness of the general manager of the lum- 
ber company in that region we were furnished with sad- 
dle horses and a mule to carry our supplies twelve miles 
over the mountains to the river where we were to fish and 
expected to capture scores of trout — I will not say "irides- 
cent" and all that sort of thing. I will leave that to 
brother Starbuck, who can do it so much better. We 
got over eight mileB on Sunday about noon and stopped at 
a ranch until Monday morning. It may be that our 
friend Alderson had something to do with our stopping 
over at this place Sunday. He was fixing up his ' 'fences" 
for a renomination and of course we deferred to his de- 
sires. He was not just precisely after trout. However, 
we left early Monday morning, and our horses being 
fresh after a rest on Sunday, we made good time over the 
worst trail (bridle path, they call it) I have ever seen, 
until we got into the river valley. Here we left our 
horses. 
Alderson and Talbott elected to fish up to where we ex- 
pected to camp over night, three miles — West Virginia 
miles — and I with three others "packed" in over a trail 
which far surpassed that over which we had ridden. We 
reached our camp ground at 1 P. M. I went at once into 
the stream to get some trout for supper and breakfast next 
morning, as we did not have anything but dry salt pork 
in the larder. I did fairly well, and had fished nearly a 
mile when my creel became so heavy that I started back 
to camp. Before I had waded down the stream half way 
to camp I met Talbott, who with Alderson had fished up 
from the place "where we left the horses. Talbott hailed 
me, "What luck, Col?" 
"Well, my basket is getting so heavy it hurts my 
shoulder, and I find great inconvenience in holding; it up 
to ease off the weight, cast my flies and keep my feet on 
these round boulders. I'm going back to camp. I have 
enough trout for supper and breakfast to-morrow, and 
have put back into the stream enough six and seven-inch 
trout to fill my creel." 
"Where did you get them? How far up stream have 
you been? What flies have you on?" asked Talbott in quick 
succession. 
I answered categorically, "I caught them out of the 
stream. I have not been above that bend in the river. I 
have a coachman for stretcher, queen-of-water for first 
and professor for second dropper." 
"Have you changed your flies at any time?" 
"No. The coachman is minus a body, and the profes- 
sor has lost his tail; but the trout don'jt seem to know that 
a professor should have a tail and a coachman a body; and 
so long as the trout were indifferent to the make-up of 
the flies I did not waste time in removing them. I think 
they would rise at a piece of red or yellow rag." 
Talbott went on up stream, and I waded down to camp. 
I say waded, for a peculiarity of the stream was that 
there was not any margin. I was compelled to wade, 
sometimes waist deep. I made an occasional cast and 
always got a rise, but I was handicapped with the weight 
of my creel, and indeed had all the trotit I wanted. I 
was looking more to a secure footing than anything else. 
Occasionally I would get a good bath, where the stream 
ran like a mill race, and the boulders were round and 
treacherous. When I got back to camp I found Alderson 
propped up against a stump taking it easy. "Hello, 
Alderson! what is the matter with you?" 
"I'm tired. What did you do above there?" 
"Well, I have a right heavy basket; and I quit, fearing 
I would deplete the stream." 
"Let me feel the weight of your creel. Oh, you cuss! 
you have a rock in the bottom of your basket." But he 
was soon satisfied that there was not a stone in my creel, 
and then he said: "Well, I give up to you. You can beat 
me catching trout, but I think I can beat you playing 
seven-up." 
The men who carried our packs had made a camp for 
us under a large pine tree, built a camp-fire and made our 
bed out of rhododendron instead of hemlock boughs, and 
as I was wet to the armpits, without a change of clothing, 
I did not sleep during the night. The air was cold and I 
sat up the entire' night, while Talbott kept up, with his 
nephew, a chorus of sonorous snoring. About 2 or 3 
o'clock in the morning Alderson, who was much in the 
same condition with myself, was standing at the fire 
warming his back. He had been quiet for some minutes, 
an unusual condition for him, much to my surprise, when 
he said: "Col, I have been thinking of something." 
"Well, I suppose you have been thinking, because you 
have not been talking. What have you been thinking?" 
"Well, I have been thinking that if the 'fool-killer' 
should come around here just now what an immense 
funeral there would be right here in the woods." 
"Where would he begin, John?" 
"Well, he would kill that man Talbott first and then he 
would — he would go for me. If it had not been for Tal- 
bott and me we would not be here." 
We packed back to where we had left our horses and 
rode to the railroad station. We were glad to get on the 
confines of civilization again and to hear the steam 
whistle. But we had a good time for about one day's 
fishing. We went 600 miles by railroad, 24 miles horse- 
back, packed in $ miles, and caught all the trout four 
men of our party and six of the natives could eat, and 
brought some home to our folks. We expect to go next 
season and will go prepared to have covering in the shape 
of a tent. ~ E. S. V. 
ODD DAYS WITH THE TROUT. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
How differently the same occupations are carried out 
by different individuals. Trout killing and trout fishing 
are apparently one and the same thing, yet there is a 
world of difference in them. 
It was on a beautiful June morning that Freezy and I 
stood on the banks of Broad Brook, a large, rollicking 
woodland stream. This trip did not result very favorably 
as regards the number of trout taught, but the pleasant 
drive and the general results of the day repaid us in part 
for the poor luck with the rod. The early morning gave 
promise of a lovely day, and as we crossed the summit of 
the last hill a picture long to be remembered burst upon 
our view. The valley lay spread out before us, a mat of 
emerald green. Occasional glimpses of the stream were 
to be had as it wound in and out among the trees and 
meadows, glistening like a ribbon of silver in the morning 
sun. In front and to the right rose the hills, forming a 
dark background, and here and there a farmhouse nestled 
in the opens. 
Broad Brook is formed by two streams called, respec- 
tively, the East and West bmoks, which both end in an 
old millpond, which in reality is the source of Broad 
Brook. Halting at this pond, and driving our team under 
an old shed by the roadside, we were not encouraged to 
any great extent, when upon inquiry made to a passing 
lad we were informed that the place was "fished to 
death." This statement our subsequent experience proved 
was the truth. We tramped clear around that pond with- 
out a single rise. The only capture made was from a fine 
patch of strawberries discovered by Freezy. 
Leaving the pond we drove down stream to Farmer 
Guiles, an old friend of my chum. We found no one at 
home, so taking the laws of hospitality in our own hands 
we put the horse in the barn, and making things snug and 
tight started in to try our luck. And the old proverbial 
luck it proved to be. Shoulder to shoulder we whipped 
that stream faithfully; and when at noon we gave it up 
in despair and emptied the creels for inspection, the im- 
posing sight nearly took our breath — five small trout, 
three for chum, two for the scribe. 
Now, while Freezy and I do not measure our happiness 
by the number of fish we catch, of course we derive a 
certain pleasure from the fact of possessing a well filled 
creel; and exhibit the same with pardonable pride. But 
when out with the rod if we fail to capture fish we always 
find plenty of enjoyment in the surroundings, the flowers 
and the varied landscape. This must have been one of 
those off days with the trout. Certainly they were there, 
for repeatedly we started them from beneath the bank, 
great lusty fellows, too. Broad Brook is a large stream; 
it is a long day's tramp to where it discharges the water 
into the Quinebaug River; and a little lawful protection 
would make it one of the finest trout streams in this sec- 
tion. 
Selecting a nice shady spot by a bubbling spring, we 
tackled the lunch and reviewed the not very exciting 
events of the morning, Finishing the last sandwich, we 
sought the stream again; but it was of no use; our luck 
was but a second edition of the forenoon's work, and we 
left the stream at 3 o'clock with four more medium-sized 
trout. The only event of the day was when chum struck 
and hooked a large trout where the stream circles an old 
rock, and caused a deep hole beneath the bank; but Freezy 
was a trifle hasty and the trout tore loose and escaped — a 
noble fish. Chum swore he would weigh 81bs. , but know- 
ing his imagination must have been somewhat heated 
from the struggle, I counted him out, and reckoned the 
fish at 21bs. 
The drive home was but a pleasant repetition of the 
morning; we both felt that we had passed a very enjoy- 
able day in spite of our empty creels, for, once more to 
use that true saying of a departed devotee of the rod, "It 
is not all of fishing to fish." It is enough to wander of a 
lovely June day along the moss-carpeted banks of a pleas- 
ant trout stream, now pausing at some swirling eddy or 
foamy pool to draw forth a spotted victim, or anon stop- 
ping to listen to the trill and twitter of the . songster of 
the wood or the garrulous chatter of the squirrels. This 
is the acme of happiness to the naturalist angler. 
E. M. Beown. 
A DAY WITH THE CHANNEL CAT. 
Beatrice, Nebraska. — A bright sun and light south 
wind makes visions of the river float through our mind 
and creates a longing to go fishing. That longing must- 
be satisfied at all hazards; and forthwith the tackle room 
is visited. Which Bhall it be — the slender bamboo or the 
stouter lancewood? The lancewood is decided on, when 
Ed. comes in; and this is given to him and I take the 
little bamboo after all. It only weighs 5Joz., and is 
rather light to handle bait with, but the lighter the tackle 
the more good sport the "cattie" will afford. With a 
good assortment of extra leaders and hooks in our box, 
we start for a riffle known of yore; and after catching 
enough frogs for a starter we wade out in the river. 
The day is not yet old enough to drive the fish under 
the tree shades which fleck the laughing, bubbling water. 
Our back is turned to these; and the frog drifts among 
the swirls and eddies, which shows a sunken boulder in 
mid current. The river is peaceful to-day, and drones an 
indolent song as it hurries along, a silvery flood glinting 
with a thousand mirrors, which flash back the sunshine 
or invert the trees and elongate them until their propor- 
tions are gigantic. The pliant bamboo acts well to-day 
and drops the hook with its tempting bait in likely 
looking nooks; and at last after floating in a de- 
jected way around the circling eddy edge it stops; 
the line straightens and the rod rainbows under the 
strain of a 2-pounder. Ha! He's found something 
about that frog which is vastly different from others 
he has eaten, and the worst of it is he can't let go of it! 
This new sensation scares him, and he will get away from 
that frog at all hazards! Away he goes up stream in 
frantic haste. The bamboo bows, then the reel sings mer- 
rily, and only stops when 75yds. of line are out. Now 
comes a twisting, whirling play that makes the water 
boil, then a sharp run across the rapid, now back for a 
snag pile under the cottonwood roots. The drag swings 
him back, and he shoots into a deeper place where the 
water rests a little; and there goes to sulking. Slowly but 
surely the reel coaxes him back into the rush of water; 
and he goes up in the air, shakes his head, and falls back 
with a splash. Now comes a sullen, dogged resistance 
that is more trying on nerves and tackle than his rush. 
He goes for bottom and stays there; won't break water 
under any circumstances; and comes in to net tail first 
and swimming against the stiffened line vigorously. This 
is kept up until, thoroughly tired out, he turns, shows the 
white gleam of belly, and submits to being towed within 
reach. If you miss him the first time with the net, then 
look out for another flurry and a short run out again; 
maybe more than one before you land him. 
Talk about a catfish not being game! 
As the sun comes higher we hunt the shadowed bank 
or the rock- girted pier, and strike them here, great blue- 
black, or golden yellow, fellows, who sometimes jump 
clear of the water in eager endeavor to snatch the spot- 
ted bait. A six-pounder soon keeps Ed busy and my 
bamboo surprises one here and there as I prospect the 
well-known feeding grounds. 
Almost before we know it the sun puts our shadow 
north of us and we clamber up on the foot of the island, 
wet, tired and thoroughly happy, to eat our lunch and 
tell each other how this or that one came to net, ' 'and if 
he had got an inch of slack he wouldn't now be in the 
basket, for the hook had torn a hole you could stick your 
thumb through. As we eat we watch the patches of 
shade and sunlight flit over the river's face, and the quiet 
hum of insect life mingles with the gurgle of the water 
as it swirls around the old snag, where balanced the 
turtles which frantically fanned the air and tumbled over- 
board when we appeared. The kingfisher's graven image 
tips the overhanging dead limb, waiting for a luckless 
minnow to rise and wake to life this feathered statue. 
The little green heron stalks with wise poise of head and 
step sedate among the tulles of the eddy's edge. • A 
flight of swallows skim the surface and scoop up a drink 
while on the wing, and the trees flash back their color on 
all sides, a moving, living picture. For an hour or so we 
feel drowsy and just "no-account" for anything, so we 
watch the scene and smoke a peace pipe with nature, 
while we just lazy round watching the birds feed their 
hungry babies and the fussy old bumble bee fumble the 
thistle bloom. 
As the day grows old we wake to action, and ere the 
sun sinks behind the western woods an even dozen shin- 
ing trophies grace our string, all won in fair fight in the 
rapid's rushing swirl. 
The trout is not more active nor the bass more gamy 
than these glistening channel catfish of the Western 
rivers; and to your split-bamboo you must add a fisher's 
science or the day will be a blank and the angler will re- 
turn disappointed. I have taken 401bs. in three hours in 
this same rapid. I have tossed a fly to trout from the 
Rockies to the Pacific, fought bass among the lilypadB 
and heard the spoon jingle in the savage headshake of the 
salmon, and for rod and line fishing I want no gamier 
strike and fight than the channel cat in rapid water. 
They will take-in season, minnows, frogs, softshell cray- 
fish, grasshoppers, helgramites, and, in clearjwater, a fly. 
Our river (the Big Blue) was on this occasion too roily to 
afford fly-fishing, but I have taken eighteen fish, from 1 
to 91bs. weight, with a large bass fly, in an afternoon. 
They bite best on clear days when there is little wind, and 
love the shadowed eddies which flank the rapids. 
Many of them are taken here every season with set 
lines and by floating down stream with fifteen or twenty 
jigs tightly corked and buoying a short line with a single 
hook. A large fish affords an exciting chase when caught 
this way, and doubles many times before he is finally 
overhauled with the boat. If any fisherman of Forest 
and Stream chances through Nebraska, then let him 
hunt^a local fisher and have a go at these game fish 
among then- native rapids, and once he catches the knack 
of finding them he must enjoy royal sport. 
ElComanoho. 
A Lake Minnetonka Bass. 
Minneapolis, Minn. — At Lake Minnetonka, Minn., Mr. 
Farrington, of Minneapolis, recently caught with light 
tackle, casting between Phelps Island Park and Wild 
Goose Island, a large-mouthed black bass that weighed 
full 61bs. It measurad 21in. in length and 6in. in breadth. 
The fishing in the lake is excellent this year, and the 
shores swarm with small fish that give great promise of 
still better sport in after years. C, P. 
