268 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Sept, 29, 1894. 
CHICAGO AND THE WEST. 
[From a Staff Correspondent] 
Camp "Forest and Stream's" Fourth Annual. 
n. 
Chicago, 111., Sept. 12. — As I remember it the editor 
of Forest and Stream himself had promised to this year 
visit the tabernacle which for four years had borne the 
banner of the paper aloft among the oaks of Mukwonago's 
domain, but he didn't come, contenting himself with the 
promise to come next year, when very likely he will 
come again the same way. At any rate, he and the other 
enthusiasts who had agreed to join us for a time, foiled 
us at the last. J. B. H. and I awoke alone at sunrise of 
our first day in camp, Ah! but the absentees; how un- 
fortunate they all were. They missed seeing the sun 
filter through the oaks that guarded our pleached spot of 
rest. They missed the run down the hill and the plunge 
into the cold lake, here all the colder by reason of the 
springs at the foot of our hill. They missed the curling 
blue of our little morning fire, and missed also the dia- 
monds on the grass, and the big fox-squirrel on the rail 
fence, and the fat woodchuck at breakfast as of yore upon 
the stony side of the hill beyond us. They missed — last of 
all, the breakfast of red hot bacon and eggs, good bread 
and butter fresh from our icy spring and cold and firm 
as ever on earth butter gets to be. They missed the stir- 
ring fragrance of the morning cup of coffee and the crisp- 
ness of potatoes absolutely boneless. In short, they 
missed, and I am sorry for them all because they missed 
it, the first morning in camp. Perhaps the first meal, or 
the first night in camp, is not after all so glorious, so 
delicious, so absolutely best as the first morning in camp. 
Indeed, perhaps not even the first morning is so good as 
the next morning, or the next. Where each moment 
slips in golden grooves along an accelerating path of pleas- 
ure, and every breath you draw is happier than the one 
before it, who shall say where, what or at what time or 
station anything is best. It is all best, after we have lost 
our yardsticks of comparison. 
After breakfast we did not at once joint our rods and 
. rush down without washing the dishes to begin the labor 
of going fishing. Nay, of such are the ways of only the 
careless uncultured members of the craft. In Camp For- 
est and Stream all is done decently and in order, with 
no boyish haste or undue dignity. J. B. H. knew perfectly 
well that the bass were there, waiting for him to come and 
catch them. He knew the exact corner of the lake, and 
the precise spot in that corner, where he would coax out 
a lusty fellow in his first few casts. He knew we would 
not need any fish to eat before supper time, and knew very 
well that a bass taken just before supper time and cooked 
under protest, so to speak, was better eating than one 
killed early in the day. J. B. H., I am glad to say, is one 
of those few generous and kindly souls whose logic does 
not include the supposistion that dead fish will stock 
future waters. For him quality of sport and not quantity 
is the jewel to be sought. Our rule had always been to 
take daily what food we or our immediate camping 
neighbors needed to eat. or to put in only one or two 
days of the trip in a deliberate hunt for big bass, always 
selecting those days when the weather just exactly suited 
us. As three or four bass a day would make all we cared 
for, and as we preferred the little fellows of not over a 
pound weight for eating purposes, what need had we to 
search for better waters than these, and indeed, what need 
to search even had we been disposed to go out and try 
what we could do? I doubt not we could have killed 
501bs. or more of bass a day, many and many a day, if we 
had wished. But what glory is there in that? J. B. H. 
could see none. But the glory of a cultivated heart is a 
perfectly equipped and well conducted camp, and with 
that, in bis opinion, there can nothing at all of the world 
iD the least compare. 
What we might have done that morning, then, along 
the rush bank where we saw two or three bass jump out 
just to give us a tip that they were there and waiting for 
us, is of no consequence. The main and immediate thing 
was to finish the arrangement of our camp. Before even 
that was the washing of the dishes. In some camps 
dishes are washed spasmodically. In Camp Forest and 
Stream they are washed methodically. While J. B. H. 
can skin a squirrel or broil a bass better than I can, I 
yield the palm to no one when it comes to washing dishes, 
and the task has been mine exclusively ever since the 
building of the city. 
In washing dishes I am not one of those who slosh 
around with a dishcloth in the hand. The water fit for 
washing greasy camp dishes is so hot no mortal hand can 
slosh therein. I always cut me a stick witb a crotch 
on the end, and thereon, binding a voluminous rag upon 
the end, and covering the whole with a section of dis- 
carded landing net. There is nothing in the world so 
good to cut grease off a plate as a piece of fine twine net- 
ting. But before the net, I must needs get the piece de 
resistance of my washing rag. 
It happened that about four years ago J. B. H. brought 
into camp a pair of flannel shirts of which I could not 
altogether approve. As each year has rolled by, I have 
approved of them still less, yet each year he has fished 
them up out of that same old battered-up valise. This 
year, in casting about me for the body of my dish rag, I 
fell upon one of these shirts, which J. B. H. in an un- 
guarded moment had left lying upon the tent floor. I cut 
the sleeve out of it, bound it on the end of my dish rag 
stick, and found it to serve excellently a double purpose. 
It made a good dish rag, and it rendered one of the shirts 
practically Jiors dtc combat. The discovery of this caused 
J. B. H. great grief, and he promptly hid the other shirt. 
Still, I reason that he will not bring it along again next 
year, and then if I have luck I will get a sleeve off of it, 
too. 
After breakfast I went down and dug out our old iron 
spring, which we found full of oak leaves, and undiscov- 
ered, under its close cover of long grasses, by any wan- 
dering summer resort being. This spring we found deep 
and cold. Oar glass butter jar, with its tightly-screwed 
top, we always kept in this spring, which was just barely 
short of the freezing point in coldness. Our bass we kept 
out in a certain reed bunk in the lake, and when we 
wanted one, we just pitched him a frog and hauled him 
in out of the cold storage. J. B. H. long bemoaned the 
ruining of our pet springs on the opposite shore by the 
hotel buildere, but he came to like the water of this iron 
spring better than any about the lake. 
The next step in Qur_cg.mp [preparations was the build- 
ing of our camp table, which the head man of our camp 
proceeded to construct out of some bits of board, flotsam 
and jetsam of the quiet Phantom regions. I rather think 
we had a better table this year than we ever did. We 
found that you can easily level up a table top by setting a 
pan of water on it when you are in course of the con- 
struction. Yes, we had a grand table, perhaps two feet 
by three in size — think of it! But we cared nothing for 
the expense of things. 
Well, along about this time farmer Moxoncame over to 
renew his acquaintance of other years, and he and J. B. H. 
had quite a good time again together talking crops and 
religion. That makes him popular up in Mukwonago, 
where he is as well known as any of the other leading; 
citizens, though he lives 400 miles from there, and only 
gets there once a year, when Camp Forest and Stream 
is in session. My recollection is that neighbor Moxon and 
J. B. H. talked crops and religion for about four or five 
hours, having a good time while I was getting the boat 
ready and sorting out the size of Natchaugs we intended 
to use for casting lines. Then I carefully put together J. 
B. H.'s favorite casting rod, indulging myself in a sigh of 
satisfaction at the silent and speedy response to a twirl of 
the thoroughbred Kentucky reel which is one of my 
cherished properties. Then I sorted out a bagful of frogs 
of just the correct maculation and longitudinal striation, 
and took a look at the sun. Well, you know a day in camp 
glidps along. I don't just remember when we ate our 
lunch, we were so long. But here it was growing evening 
and before long the bass would go on feed. Really, I had 
to stop their conversation, because it is one of the rules of 
Camp Forest and Stream that we must have fresh bass 
for supper the second night we spend in camp. 
It may be that J. B. H.'s fingers are not as deft as they 
once were, or that his far more than three score years 
and ten have left his eyes not so bright as they once were. 
At any rate he begins his fishing every year with a battle 
royal with the limber-jointed thoroughbred Kentucky 
casting reel. All men know what singular things a cast- 
ing reel can do upon occasion. J. B H., as 1 may earlier 
have intimated, is a deacon in the church, and always 
has been all his life. Sometimes I think the holding of a 
deaconship and a casting reel, both at the same time, 
must be a difficult thing. The ideas are not altogether 
compatible. Really, I hardly know which one J. B. H. 
. would resign if it came to a vote, but he so far has always 
managed to hold on to both and usually comes out in 
command of the joint situation at the end of the camp. 
This evening, however, he had a monstrous hard wrestle 
with the reel, and many a frown and pucker chased 
across his troubled countenace. Of course, it's no good 
to speculate on such things, and not polite, but I some- 
times wonder if the good old men we know didn't ever 
say a single swear word — not never, not once, not in their 
whole lives? I remember, once J. B. H. and the Chief - 
with-Two-Stomachs and myself were fishing on the creek 
below the dam, and the Chief caught a pickerel that bit 
his thumb and he said a swear word, which he wouldn't 
have done for a thousand dollars cold cash on the spot. 
But J. B. H. couldn't help laughing. Now, how could he 
— but perhaps this is becoming too philosophical. 
Anyhow, to-night the reel wouldn't work, in spite of 
my sage advice to J. B. H. to put some oil on his thumb. 
Of course, the more exasperated you get over a casting 
reel, the worse it cuts up, and there you are. "I wish 
you'd try this thing yourself, young man," said J. B. H. 
after a last elegant sample of raw silk pyrotechnics. My 
duty in Camp Forest and Stream, as we have regularly 
conceived it, is to wash dishes, row the boat and catch 
frogs. It does not extend to catching fish, and I resent 
this extra labor, usually putting only one rod in the boat. 
This time, however, I relented, because it was growing 
late. Taking the rod, I made a few casts among the 
rushes in the shallow water, and as luck would have it, 
almost at once had a couple of bass — nice little green, 
wriggly fellows, about a foot long, just right for cooking. 
Upon this, we cheerfully pulled for camp, I all the way 
reviling J. B. H. upon the indignity of having to ask 
another fellow to catch the fish. His placid spirit was 
proof against this. "We've got 'em," said he tersely, 
"and we'll eat 'em." Both of which propositions I am 
willing to set down as of established truth. We did eat 
'em, and they were good. 
But why set down in order incidents which did not 
happen in order? Why, indeed, attempt any sort of 
classification of life in camp, where we did nothing in 
regular order except our camp work, and where the great 
charm of existence was that we should, each day and 
each hour of the day do just what we felt like doing. One 
day we took our whole tribe of young Waukesha Indians 
with us, and explored the Mukwonago River below the 
dam as far as the Fox River. Here we discovered great 
numbers of small-mouth bass, some ancient hoary fel- 
lows, with leisurely habits and much portliness of person, 
but it was warm and we could only get two to rise to the 
fly (the Johnson-fancy), both of which lived long enough 
to wish they hadn't. But the shallow, weedy stream 
never had much attractions for the senior member of the 
firm, and we went there no more, though bearing the 
big small-mouths long in memory. 
i l One morning our young neighbors on the hilt an- 
nounced their intention of returning home. They said 
they didn't want to go, but had to, though they were 
reticent as to the actual reasons. They had been living 
strictly on their own resources, as became youn <: woods- 
men, but of late their diet had dwindled down to bread 
and milk, and I think they longed for the flesh pots of 
their Waukesha homes. The year before this the ex- 
treme scarcity of frogs had led us to pay these boys the 
fabulous price of 30 or even 35 cents a dozen. This year, 
alas! for them, frogs were all too abundant, and under 
the inexorable laws of political economy, the abundant 
supply cut down the demand. Six boys couldn't live on 
20 cents a day, and the industrial panic broke up their 
little community, much to our regret. We gave such 
relief as we could by way of canned tomatoes, jam, etc., 
but it could not avail. They were too hungry and too 
many, and the inevitable had to happen. 
One of the boys, a tough and hardy youngster, in his 
early teens, by name of Ben Bugbee, was made of sterner 
stuff than the others, and refused to abandon the fort. 
He stayed on alone in the big wall tent, living on supplies 
which he obtained in some mysterious manner. J. B. H,, 
who is always disposed to talk to boys, formed an admira- 
tion for the lad who wouldn't go home, and we finally 
concluded that Ben was about the right sort of stuff, 
moved him over bodily inxo our camp, thereby making 
him probably the happiest boy in Wisconsin, for reasons 
which I shall later on disclose. 
If Ben had done nothing but tell us about the little 
perch he would have earned a right to our gratitude. We 
had been eating bass, and the boys had been eating perch, 
little fellows about 4in. long, which they found ever 
ready, in any weather or at any time of the day, to yield 
to the blandishment of a hook dangled over one particu- 
lar weed bed. "You want to catch the little ones," said 
Ben, "not longer than your finger. The big ones aren't 
good." Following his advice, we caught eighteen little 
baby perch one evening, just big enough to fill a skillet, 
with their tails all turned nicely to the center. We care- 
fully rejected all croppieB, rock bass and large perch 
which annoyed us by getting hooked while we were after 
the small perch. We found that these little fellows fried 
in fine bread dust and served on a hot plate, still with 
their tails pointing centerward, and garnished with fine 
strips of fried bacon, made absolutely the best fish we 
could find in the lakes. They were of just that size you 
can eat bones and all, and were delicious fried brown and 
crisp, as our chief cook turned them out. After that we 
often went out and caught our regulation dozen and a half 
of baby perch when we happened to want something ex- 
ceptionally good. Until Ben insisted on our trying this 
dish, we had never bothered with any fish but bass 
We discovered among other things that the caddis fly 
- cases were coming ashore in considerable numbers one 
morning, and that reminded us of certain suspicious 
splashing we had been hearing of nights among the rushes 
in front of our camp. We took the hint at once, and 
thereafter for several nights we had furious fun with the 
fly-rods, just after dusk, when the fish of all sorts, from 
sunfish and rock bass up to black bass, were feeding on 
the caddis as they rose. This sport nearly caused us to 
abandon our evening fishing for black bass in the reeds, 
though the caddis only rose for a short time each night. 
We were the only ones on the lake to take advantage of 
this fishing, which we discovered long ago. 
We rediscovered one day that old maxim that necessity 
iB the mother of invention. We had started off fffr the 
Fox River, where we had always had good sport with the 
small-mouths. It was a walk of three miles and back, 
but J. B. H. said he didn't mind that. Remembering our 
earlier experiences as to the capriciousness of taste in the 
small-mouth family, we stopped by the wayside to catch 
some dragon flies for bait. We managed to get some of 
these sprightly insects on the mullein stalks, but the ques- 
tion arose what to do with them after we had caught 
them, for we had no sort of receptacle for their confine- 
ment. J. B. H. tried carrying them in his hat, but his 
hair not being as abundant as it once was, they tickled, 
and he couldn't keep them there. We solved the question 
by sitting down by the wayside then and there, and eating 
the marmalade out of a wide-mouthed marmalade pot we 
had along in the lunch basket. We found this did very 
well, though of course it was useless as long as the mar- 
malade was in it. Then we went placidly on and caught 
our string of bass. 
We spent a little time one day in experimenting with 
a new model canvas canoe which Wm. Armstrong, of 
Chicago, had sent up to our aquatic proof -house for trial 
before going into the manufacture. We found it a fine 
birch bark model, paddling easily, though needing a new 
arrangement of the stretching device. Under our advice 
the youngest of the "kids," a boy of about twelve, whom 
we knew by the name of Lud, paddled the boat out into 
the deep water, upset it, got on top of it, paddled it ashore, 
and by himself righted it and got the water out of it. All 
of which served to pass away an hour or so. 
We discovered, in course of our further experiments, 
that the little Skinner single-hook casting spoon, about as 
big as one's finger nail, really did make a difference over 
the bare hook frog. We used small frogs, about 2$ to 
3in. long, on this spoon, and found the bass struck far 
more readily at this bait than at the large frogs alone. 
We were troubled more with crappies; small bass, etc., in 
using this bait, but some of the largest bass we killed 
were taken on this bait, and the very biggest bass of all 
fell victim to it — the bass which is very apt to win the 
Natchaug Silk Co.'s big-mouth prize for this year. Of all 
which more in due season. 
One day we walked five miles or so through the green 
woods off toward Eagle P. O. , climbing to the top of the 
highest hill m the county, whence we could see a lovely 
panorama of lake, stream and wood, of green and yellow 
grain, of shadow and of sun. This, we thought, was as 
good as catching a great manv fish. And that we ate our 
lunch by the great crystal Kellogg spring, which is so 
clear you cannot tell where the air leaves off and the 
water begins. Of this J. B. H. drank a dozen cupsful, 
and stood a half^h our watching the liquid silver bubble out 
from under a confining board which some one had placed 
across the stream which is formed by the mighty spring. 
This, in his opinion, was as good as catching several fish, 
and as usual he was unwilling to go away from this favor- 
ite spot, but calmly went to sleep beneath the trees. 
Meantime Ben and I, having discovered an exceptionally 
fine brand of big frog in the cold marsh near by, we set 
to work to accumulate a mess of frogs' legs for supper, 
which did not take so very long. I saw an odd and shock- 
ing thing then. We usually tapped the frog over the head 
with a stick, and then unceremoniously cut off his hind- 
legs at once, dividing him into two equal parts. Coming 
back over our trail, I saw something clumsily moving in 
the shallow water, and to my surprise and horror found it 
to be the front half of the running gear of a frog, which 
had no hindlegs about his person. This frog, or half a 
frog, had crawled on its two front feet a distance of sev- 
eral feet over the grassy bank into the water. I do not 
know of any Indian massacre story that comes up to this. 
Had I been satisfied that this plucky frog's hindlegs would 
ever have grown out again, I should certainly not have 
finished kiuing him. 
Another day we went over to Eagle Lake, and spied 
also afar off from that point the distant gleam of a tiny 
river called Lulu Lake, which nobody knows anything 
about, and which we are going to explore next year. 
And by Billy Tuohy's kindness we were invited by Mr. 
Mullin to go over to his farm and catch, if we could, 
every last one of the big trout which for years have, been 
growing fat since their planting in the cold spring water 
of the marsh in front of his house. We went over and 
saw the trout, but it was warm and bright and we got 
none. They lie out in the heart of an awful bog, and he 
who gets one earns it. To a long line and a grasshopper 
they sometimes yield — big fellows, more than 4lbs, in. 
