464 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[June 8, 1895. 
ANIOLD STORY. 
DEDICATED TO A FOUR-POUND TROUT. 
The waters slip 'neath the willows green 
■Which lightly stoop to kiss, 
Then away they dance in the sunbeam's glance 
To smile in a ripple of bliss, 
And hurry on in a silvery sheen 
To swirl in the pool so near, 
"While the breezes play and softly say, 
"There's a big fellow lurking here." 
The swallows sport in the blue above, 
And the meadow lark sings below, 
While the clouds float by in the summer sky, 
And the robins come and go. 
A warbler whistles his notes of love 
To the mate he holds so dear, 
And over the pool he calls, "Oh, fool! 
There's a big fellow lurking here." 
I take the hint, and lightly throw 
Till my hackles and ibis bright 
Can just be seen 'mid the water's sheen 
On the edge of the foam so white. 
Then out from the foam there seems to go 
A shadow, as if in fear; 
And past I feel a whisper steal, 
"There's a big fellow lurking here." 
Once more I throw, then wait to feel 
The thrill I love so well; 
To hear the quick and blithesome click 
Of the reel its story tell. 
Ah, quiet now! Was that the reel? 
It was; and loud and clear 
It sings to me in merry glee, 
"There's a big fellow lurking here." 
Oh, nobly doth the laneewood bend, 
To check each desperate lunge; 
Each rushing whirl and mighty swirl, 
Each sudden rapid plunge. 
The while each move I watchful tend 
Until with a feeling queer, 
As if but a boy, I shout with joy, 
"There's a big fellow lurking here." 
And now I stand with victory's flush, 
I know that I surely win. 
The fight is fought, the net is brought 
And I stoop to take him in, 
But what means that sudden backward rush? 
That snap there in my rear? 
The line in twain bears this refrain. 
"There's a big fellow lurking here." Waldo. 
TROUT1NG ON CAPE COD. 
"I GO a-fishing," said Peter, nearly twenty centuries 
ago; and be went, and when he had cast his net on the 
right side of the ship he and they that were with him 
"were not able to draw it for the multitude of fishes." 
Since that memorable day, so long ago, what a vast 
army of men have, like Peter, been a-fishing; but how 
very, very few have like them been unable to draw their 
nets for the multitude of fishes. However, is not, after 
all, the multitude of fishes (providing we can catch them) 
a very small part of the object of a fishing trip? Is it not 
rather the pleasure of being out of doors; of communing 
freely with nature; of revisiting old haunts or perchance 
exploring new ones; of once more wading and splashing 
in the water or of stealing cautiously, noiselessly along by 
some deep pool, momentarily expecting to hook a "big 
one;" of watching the swallows sporting high above; of 
listening to the melodies of the songsters in the hedges; 
of taking long, deep breaths of clear, pure air; of feeling 
that you are far from the heat and strife of the city, and 
once more enjoying the bappy freedom of boyhood's 
day. Is not all this, I say, what constitutes the real true 
enjoyment of a fishing trip? 
At least so thought I, as some three weeks ago I boarded 
a train bound for old Cape Cod, and in reply to the ques- 
tion of a friend quoted Peter's own words, "I go a fish- 
ing." 
With what pleasant memories I whiled away the 
tedium of the railway journey. Once more in imagina- 
tion the brown hackle was lightly floating over the big 
hole above the railroad, or the white miller was circling 
in the eddy below; once more the fat, luscious worm was 
wriggling in the most alluring manner beneath the old 
half sunken log; and once more the silver-bellied min- 
now was vainly trying to avoid some unseen danger in 
the little pool at the foot of the falls. And so on, never 
once stopping to think that probably those old familiar 
haunts had long since been either fished out or else leased 
by the city sportsman with plenty of money. 
The conductor's cry of "Sandwich! Sandwioh!" brought 
me from my reverie to a realization of the fact that this 
was my stopping place, and that I must collect my traps 
and "hustle" to get off. My! how quiet the. dear old 
town did seem, and how dark it was to me, coming, as I 
had, from the electric lights of the city. 
But the air! How good it was— so clear, so pure, and 
with just a hint of the salt marshes and the deep, blue 
sea beyond. 
"Why ar'n't you fishing?" from the first person I meet 
the next morning, as I sally forth to make some early 
morning calls; and "What! not fishing this morning?" 
from the next, and so on, until it is clear that to hold my 
reputation I must go a fishing at once. So be it. A 
change of garb, my trusty little laneewood in hand, and 
a trout basket swinging from shoulder (basket to carry 
the bait, don't you know), and though late in the after- 
noon I head for the town brook. "Not a trout there " 
they say, but then what do I care. It is a pleasant brook, 
winding under the wdlows, and finally out on to the 
marshes, where "time and tide" have made deep dark- 
looking holes; and I can fish there all I please; and was 
not that what I came down for? 
"Easy! That was a nibble;" and that" is the first trout I 
have caught for three years, and though he is but a little 
fellow, he is a "trout," and big enough to keep; and I am 
as elated as if he were a veritable giant of the race. Two 
more of the same size between the bridges and then for 
the big holes. 
Nothing in the first or the second or the third, until — 
Ah, that's more like it! See how the limber rod bows 
and bends and checks each frantic rush. Landed at last, 
and if not large (he weighs fib.) be is certainly a beauty; 
with his silvery sides, so beautifully spotted, he causes 
almost a pang of regret as I slip him in to join the other 
three. 
That will do for the morning and home I hie me, with 
mouth already watering for the luscious dish of smoking, 
well-browned trout that will furnish such a treat. 
And what trout! 
Go through the Boston market; look at the fish dis- 
played there and wonder, if you please, why those from 
Cape Cod bring nearly double the price of those from New 
Hampshire and elsewhere. Then come with me, sit 
down to a dinner of both kinds, taste first of one, then of 
the other, and wonder no longer at the difference in 
price. The Cape trout, running occasionally up to 51bs. 
in weight, have, unless confined in bogs or ponds, free 
access to salt water, and as a rule the big ones are caught 
in or near the marshes. With sides and belly of a beauti- 
ful silver hue, with the spots deeply and clearly marked, 
the back fairly light and the flesh as pink as the pinkest 
salmon, he is to my mind the king of fishes. But to 
return to my tale. 
The days go by, the trout are few and rather small, 
until at length George (never mind who George is. I 
know, he knows and a great many fish might know if 
they had not already gone the way that good fresh-caught 
fish are apt to go) announces that he knows of a bole 
where I have never been, and where he has caught this 
year several that weighed more than a pound each; one 
that weighed 3Jlbs. and lost one that would go 41bs. Do 
I want to go? Of course I want to go! So the next 
morning sees me up at 3 o'clock with a three-mile tramp 
before me. Half way there we are joined by Fred, whom 
I may call our "colored guide," as it was he who first 
showed George the place. At 4 o'clock we are there, and 
a more unlikely place for trout I never saw. Away down 
on the marsh, almost to the beach, and standing in mud 
and water up to my knees, I throw my line with very 
much the feelings of a "doubting Thomas," and all the 
time those two fellows are telling such marvelous stories 
about what they have caught and what they have lost, 
that in spite of myself I find I am muttering something 
about the proverbial fish story. Splash! That was a 
trout, and a big one too. Another splash and still 
another, "Boys, I believe you both to be apostles of 
truth, but why, oh, why don't they bite?" 
But they didn't, save one little fellow to Fred's scarlet- 
ibis, and then the tide drove us away. 
Down again in the afternoon, with the same result, a 
smaller one to Fred's scarlet-ibis. Up at 3 A. M. the next 
day, with the result that George gets only a ^-pounder, 
and the rest nothing. The boys are muttering something 
about a Jonah, but I don't hear them. Up at 3 the next 
day, and a repetition of the previous days, save that it is 
I who catch the little fellow. 
However, both of the others hook some big fellows that 
after a few moments play break away, and as I have seen 
several jump I am forced to believe that they are there. 
This is my la^t day, and as I slowly reel in my line I think 
ruefully of the big stories I told when I left the city and 
the very small trout I have to take back. 
But those were very pleasant hours spent on the marsh, 
with the green hills circling in the distance and the 
village spires just visible through the trees. 
And oh, the birds! Yellowlegs, grass birds, and plover 
of all kinds, for the spring flight is now on and they 
are protected by law. And the way Fred could call them. 
One could sit for hours and listen to him. 
There would be a faint whistle and we would make out 
a flock of birds just visible over the marsh, then Fred 
would send them a long-drawn plaintive note, then 
another, and the birds would hesitate; still another, and 
they would head our way. A few short coaxing notes 
and the flock would sail (with wings set) over us as we 
stood without cover of any sort. Then they would circle 
around whistling in reply to Fred, as only plover can. 
I have never heard anything like it, and don't expect to 
again until I go down in the fall, and with Fred to call 
for me, try to bring back a' better bag of birds than I have 
basket of fish. 
Home in the city "once more, and momentarily expecting 
the postman to bring me a letter from George, with a de- 
scription of that 4-pounder, I feel as I pen these words 
that I have indeed had a good time. 
I have been a-fishing! I have waded the brooks, visited 
old haunts, breathed pure air, listened to the birds, torn 
my clothes on a barbed wire fence, scratched my hands 
in the brambles, wet my feet, regretfully watched the 
circles made by a "big one" that broke away, enjoyed to 
the utmost the little fellows that I caught, filled my mind 
with the pleasantest of recollections, and now, as I settle 
down to work, look eagerly forward to the time when I 
can once more say, "I go a-fishing." Waldo. 
Adirondack: Fishing Notes. 
Northwood, N. Y., June 1— There are hordes of fish- 
ermen coming to and going from this region. Some have 
caught all they cared for, others have caught none. The 
good fisherman can usually get all the fish he ought to 
have. The greenhorns have caught only a few. 
The fish caught do not run large. A lf-pounder was 
the largest that I have seen. Of \ and f-pounders there 
are a plenty, and not a few pounders. 
The fish are quick when they touch a fly, and it takes a 
sudden arm to strike them. Slappers, trout that knock 
the fly under the water before taking it in their mouths, 
are frequently seen. Raymond S. Spears. 
Of Course Pompano take the Hook. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
In your last issue R. P. Bell, writing from St. Peters- 
burg, Fla., says (referring to pompano): "They do not 
bite at a hook." Well, perhaps they don't; but they do 
bite at a baited hook and afford fine sport with rod and 
reel, using what is called at Jupiter Inlet, Fla. , sea fleas 
for bait. In confirmation of this statement I refer you to 
the following well-known gentlemen, viz.: Major H. C. 
McDowell, John H. McFerran, C. Lewis Diehl and "Joe'"' 
Davis, of Kentucky, who have caught pompano with rod 
and reel, using bait as above, Norman Fletcher. 
ANGLING NOTES. 
Alfred C. Harmsworth. 
Readers of Forest and Stream will recall the series of 
papers which appeared in this journal last January under 
the caption "An Englishman's Experience of Florida 
Fishing," written by Mr. Alfred C. Harmsworth, who 
came to this country especially for the fishing at a season 
when Northern waters were closed to anglers by law as 
well as by the ice. 
The papers in question gave ample evidence of the 
writer's innate desire to do full justice to the country, the 
people and the fishing; and that he was more than pleased 
generally with what he found is proof of hi3 discriminat- 
ing mind and excellent judgment. 
The current issue of Vanity Fair, London, has for its 
colored supplement a full-length portrait of Mr. Harms- 
worth as the Conservative candidate for Parliament 
from Portsmouth, and under the head "Men of the Day" 
says: "For a boy Mr. Alfred Charles Harmsworth has 
already made quite a noise in the world; for though he 
was born only nine and twenty years ago he has achieved 
much wealth, some fame, considerable popularity and a 
reputation for succeeding in what he attempts. His 
father being the late Alfred Harmsworth, of the Middle 
Temple, he was meant for the bar; but when he saw 
that briefs were few and found that journalism was less 
fatiguing (and more profitable) he altered his ways and 
started Answers. They made him, and he is now inter- 
ested in no fewer than fifteen journals, and also in the 
navy, of which he knows things that will prove useful 
when he is fairly launched on the sea of politics. 
"He is full of sanguine enterprises, for his mother, who 
was a Miss Maffett, of County Dublin, gave him Irish 
virtues. He is . therefore married, and last year he 
despatched an expedition, under Mr. Jackson, in search 
of the North Pole. * * * 
"He is a successful fisherman, who has fished in most 
civilized waters and some others, and he is the writer of 
the tarpon department in the forthcoming Badminton 
book on angling. 
"Journalistically it remains for him to found a daily 
newspaper, which he will presently do. He is a good- 
looking, fair-haired boy who will do Portsmouth credit." 
It seems scarcely the proper term to describe one as a 
boy who has successfully engineered so many great enter- 
prises as Mr. Harmsworth, and whose operations extend 
well over the globe. During his visit to this country he 
was so pleased with one of the houses that he saw in the 
South that be took model and plans home with him and 
had its counterpart erected on his estate in Kent as an 
office or studio. 
Salmon in Lake George. 
Dr. D. S. Sanford, of Long Island City, who has a 
country house on Sanford Island, Lake George, tells me 
that he thinks a landlocked salmon weighing over lOlbs. 
was caught in Lake George this spring. The fish was 
caught by Walter Bray ton, and was a new fish to Bray ton 
and other professional fishermen. Dr. Sanford saw the 
fish, and while he is not familiar with the appearance of 
landlocked salmon, from what he has been told he is quite 
of the opinion that that is what the fish was, and he will 
endeavor to have any future specimen secured for exam- 
ination. I planted 5,000 salmon fry in the lake in 1887 
and 5,000 more in 1890, and this is not the first time that 
I have heard of new fish being taken that were suspected 
of being salmon. 
Salmon in the Delaware. 
In a personal letter from Mr. Henry C. Ford, President 
of the Pennsylvania Fish Commission, he incidentally 
mentions the salmon in the Delaware as the result of 
planting fry in that stream as follows: "We deposited 
60,000 Atlantic salmon fry in the headwaters of the Dela- 
ware in 1890, and the smolts were quite numerous in the 
upper river for two years afterward. 
"This year there is quite a run of Atlantic salmon in the 
river. They have been taken in nearly every shad fishery 
from Fort Delaware to the Water Gap. They run from 9 
to 121bs. I cannot help thinking that they are the fry 
liberated in 1890 which are now coming up — fine, fresh- 
run salmon. 
"Though the Delaware is southerly for a salmon river, 
we feel encouraged to hope that the 300,000 fry liberated 
in 1891 will making a still better showing next year." 
It is probable that the salmon taken this year are partly 
from the planting of 1891, as they would be due to return 
as adult fish in the spring of '95, after spending two years 
in fresh water and two years in salt water, as was the case 
in the Hudson. 
It would likewise seem that there is no run of grilse in 
the Delaware, which* is one of the peculiarities of the 
Hudson. The first salmon to return from the sea weighed 
from 9 to 151bs. It is to be hoped that now the salmon 
have shown that they will return to the river, everything 
needful will be done to establish them permanently. 
Pangora and Steelwood. 
A correspondent asks where the new rod woods I re- 
cently mentioned, pangora and steelwood, could be ob- 
tained. The types made me say pangord instead of pan- 
gora, which is correct. 
I do not know as either wood can be obtained, certainly 
not in this country, as two English dealers appear to have 
a cinch on the two woods under the names given. The 
pangora rods are made by Dunhill, 125 Euston Road, Lon- 
don, N. W., England, and the steelwood by James Ogden, 
28 Winch comb street, Cheltenham, England. 
Since my note was written the following claim has been 
made for the pangora wood by its chief advocate: 
"Pangora being similar to hickory, that hickory of a 
suitable growth is better than greenheart, and that pan- 
gora, owing to its lightness, is more, suitable for the pur- 
pose intended." My correspondent is an amateur rod 
maker, who has had considerable experience with various 
rod woods, and if he succeeds in getting the woods at the 
addresses given will he not give his opinion of them in 
Forest and Stream? I advise him first to try the steel- 
wood. 
Kilburne's Trout. 
It is but a few weeks since I mentioned the sale of a 
copy of Goode's "Game Fishes of the United States," at 
auction, for more than four times the publishers' price, 
and referred to S. A. Kilburne's brook trout, painted for 
that work, as perhaps the best painting of our brook trout 
that ever came from the brush of any artist, 
