38 FOREST AND STREAM. [Aug. i, 1896. 
"Yea, I've eat 'em many times, an' they're right good 
too, if you know how to dress an' cook 'em, an' I'll tell 
you what else is good, but you may not believe it; that's 
young quawks; the old ones are fishy, but the young ones 
are not, though they are fed on fish, an' I'll get you up 
a ' 
"But about the muskrat, Porter; I've eaten him, and I 
don't want any more." 
"Wa'n'c it good?" 
"I'll tell you," said Bill; "you know old Dandaraw, the 
Canuck Frenchman who keeps the little drunkery just 
north of the B. & A. passenger houses, of course you do. 
Well, after the spring freshet I dropped into Dandaraw's, 
and we were talking about shooting muskrats. Dandaraw 
said: 'You shoot-a da mus'rat, hey, Bill?' 'Oh, yea,' said 
I, 'sometimes juat for fun, and I give 'em to Port I'yler, 
and he skins 'em for market.' 
" 'You doan' eat-a da mus'rat, hey, Bill?' 
" 'No, I don't eat 'em; they smell a little too musky for 
me,' 
" 'Oh, Bill, you mus' eat-a heem; you doan' know how 
good-a he ees.' 
"I asked him how he cooked 'em, just for curiosity, 
for I had no idea that the things were eatable, and I only 
wanted to hear him chirp. He said: 
" 'First you skeen da mus'rat an' clean him fine; den 
you bile him a leetle; den you fry him an' you eat him, 
an' [smack] o-o-o!' 
"Well," said Bill, "I skeen-a da mus'rat an' I clean 
him fine; den I bile him a leetle; den I fry him an' I ea,t 
him. I could do the whole trick except the [smack] an' 
the 0-0-0. I could eat a muskrat on a pinch, but for 
choice would prefer one of these partridges that Port 
serves up so good." 
Port thought that he could serve up some nice fat 
young muskrats, so they would fiU Dandaraw's descrip- 
tion, and even Bill Fairchild would smack his lips loudly 
and say "O-o-o," and it was agreed to try it a few weeks 
later, but I missed the feast. 
Tyler was the only man I ever knew who could success- 
fully hunt woodcock without a dog. He seemed to know 
just where to look for them and how to find them, and 
aaid that he did not want to be bothered with a dog. An 
English gunner and dog fancier lived in that lower end 
of Albany called Bethlehem, perhaps the same district 
now known as Kenwood. They called him Ken King, 
his front name being Kenneth, and I bought a bitch 
puppy from him, the mother being a pointer of famous 
stock and the father the then celebrated setter Dash, 
owned by Mr. James Bleecker, the crack setter of the 
time. By the way, this Nell of mine never showed the 
slightest trace of setter blood, and she went to Michigan 
afterward, and was the mother of many good pointers 
with never a sign of setter blood. 
This was in 1853, and my people having moved to Al- 
bany there was no place for Nell, and Port agreed to take 
care of her. I wanted him to work her on snipe and 
woodcock, but he said: "A dog is all right for men who 
can't find birds without one, but they are little use to me; 
I like to find 'em myself; and on the old grounds that 
I've hunted for years 1 know the best feedin' spots in 
every marsh or cornfield, and if the birds are there they'll 
not be far from these spots." This is a strange statement, 
but the fact that this man lived up to it and shot both 
snipe and woodcock for market without a dog can be at- 
tested by men now living in Albany and Greenbush. 
Surely a most strange and interesting character was Old 
Port Tyler. Feed Mather. 
FLY-FISHING 
On the North Shore of Lake Superior. 
[Continwd f rom page 60.] 
The next morning we broke camp about 6 o'clock and 
sailed away to Jackson's Cove, which place we reached 
in less than three hours. 
As we anticipated, we found that a large party of an- 
glers had but recently left here. Kenosh said that the 
fresh balsam beds which were here and on the mainland 
opposite showed at least a party of twelve. A table 12ft. 
long, and very permanently made of sound boards, was 
left behind, while strewn around were divers odds and 
ends that attach to an angler's paraphernalia. 
"Here," says Ned, picking up a tabulated card, "is the 
number of fish they have taken, and here again is their 
ice box where they kept their trout." 
"Nonsense. That card simply gives the score of Pedro 
games and there are others lying around; there again are 
some small pieces of boards upon which their tally was 
also kept daily, indicative of a famine in paper." 
"But what of the box, it certainly smells fishy?" 
"That doubtless, as you say, was their storehouse for 
the trout." 
"I don't believe they left a trout behind." 
"I'll soon ascertain." And in a short time I had my rod 
ready, and, ongoing to the outside of the granite mass 
where we had always caught some fine trout, I cast and 
cast until my arm wearied, and then returned to Ned with 
a dejected air and a dismal report. He then insisted upon 
my going down to a point some distance below the camp 
and there try. I did so, but not a break in the water took 
place, and again disappointed I returned with report num- 
ber two. This was demoralizing to the entire camp, but 
the shore above and below was still left for trial, and if 
they failed to develop the quarry it would simply be evi- 
dence that the early birds had gathered in all the spoils. 
While the boys were putting up the tents Kenosh found 
a lady's garter, and a fine one too, and holding it aloft for 
our eager scrutiny, smilingly said: 
"Women here too." 
"Then," said Ned, "two parties have been here. 
"How so?" 
"No ladies went with the Detroit party and here is the 
card I've just found of H, V.' Whittaker," 
"Yes, but two of the Grand Rapids party had their 
wives with them," 
"That accounts for it, and that makes fully twenty 
trout fishermen that have invaded and impoverished 
these trouting grounds." 
"Nothing left for us." 
"Nothing?" 
"You wait," says Kenosh, "we git some, bet you." 
We caught at the hopeful straw the half-breed held out 
and concluded to first give the place a thorough trial be- 
fore losing all heart. We were anxious to learn whether 
the advance anglers here had bagged all the trout, and 
just aa soon as the camp was in order we started for the 
bay immediately below the camp. Being determined to 
thoroughly investigate, we commenced delivering our 
flies as soon as we were about lOOyds. beyond the camp. 
The lake was evidently higher this year than last, and the 
shore line in consequence in fine condition, there being 
just the proper depth of water for fishing. 
I had selected a red-ibis for my stretcher and a profes- 
sor for my dropper, while Ned clung to his "dusting 
brush" as leader and a spider for dropper. These selec- 
tions by Ned were not in accord with high art or in con- 
sonance with what Charles Dudley Warner has said, for 
he declares: "The trout fly is a 'conventionalized' crea- 
tion, as we say of ornamentation." The theory is that fly- 
fishing being a high art, the fly must not be a tame imi- 
tation of nature, but an artistic suggestion of it. 
I reminded Ned of this when I saw him break the sur- 
face with his outre flies, but he declared there was no 
originality among high art anglers, for they would sooner 
have a delicately and handsomely made fly than anything 
else. "If one of these professionals were seen using a fly 
like that red-headed terror of mine he would undoubtedly 
imagine a blackballing by the select coterie of the broth- 
erhood, I am an innovator — originator, you might say — 
for I don't believe any trout was ever attracted by the 
beauty of any fly. 
"I have given you evidence after evidence of it, and 
though I may have occasionally failed, I more frequently 
succeed. This new fancy of mine is a perfect decoy, as 
you see. Ah, therel" and then the delighted angler was 
in a paroxysm of joy on striking and finding a gamy trout 
battling with him. Ned had a glorious fight on hand, 
and when his reel was not singing his rod was bending, 
and when the trout was pausing for breath the little wind- 
lass was drawing him to his fate. Once he broke water, 
and then his loveliness shone out in the bright sun, with 
every spot flashing, every hue gleaming and every curv- 
ing line a picture of grace and beauty. As Ned brought 
him to net he remarked: 
"That's one the anglers left." 
"And here," I cried, "is another," as I sent the cruel 
hook into the tough jaw of the beautiful fish that had 
endeavored to cultivate friendship with the professor. It 
was a fair battle in a fair field, and won simply on its 
merits by the upper foeman with the willowy wand and 
the tempting deceit. He was a 2^- pounder, and as rich 
in rosy tints as if from the fount of beauty. 
This was the last trout we could deceive here, and then 
it was on to the big rock where we had slain many a royal 
beauty of the tinted dots. We reach it in a few minutes, 
mount its smooth and rounded top and flog its waters 
from end to end, and not a response is received. 
"They have got the last trout here," says Ned, and so I 
thought. It is again aboard and on to other shores, A 
ragged crag with its watery base one vast field of broken 
stone shows up, and then like cobwebs our flies drop and 
dance around and about the seductive lairs, but no tenant 
of the deep springs forth for the counterfeited morsel. 
We at last tire of delivering the feathers, and as the bril- 
h'ant sunshine falls o'er us and the placid air fans us we 
steal along like midnight plunderers looking for the 
spangled booty. Once more we strike a bulwark of sav- 
age aspect that is riven and defaced, hacked and shat- 
tered, where a fanciful network of sunbeams crosses its 
distorted front as if to hide the sad havoc the elements 
had created. 
Here we are again on the cruel war path reaching out 
for the finny spoils, and the earnest work we did should 
have met merited reward, but not a nurseling or matured 
one of the scarlet and silver draped and dotted family 
made recognition of either om* fiery or fanciful fiies. 
"What the matter with trout?" says Kenosh in a de- 
spairing tone. 
"The recent visitation of twenty anglers," says Ned. 
"A stern reaUty of the early bird theory," I remarked. 
"Exactly," 
Such failure in such magnificent and tempting waters 
was quite disappointing, but we had two trout the late 
piscators had failed in securing, and the wonder was that 
we had them after such a thorough and constant thrash- 
ing that had evidently taken place here, 
"We git 'em yet," said the half-breed consolingly, but 
nevertheless we had deep misgivings about it, and con- 
cluding to seek other parts of the coast line ordered the 
boat on the return. We continued beating the balmy air 
and lightly disturbing the water with our dropping lures 
till we reached the crumbling spurs and low battlements 
at the old point where we had captured our first two, and 
where again fortune smiled on us by adding two more to 
the sum total. This put us all in good humor, for it pre- 
saged much pleasure in store for us. 
It was for camp and dinner and then more trouting late 
in the afternoon. The morning was an ideal one, and 
just to the fancy of a poetic dreamer. The sky was 
ravishingly charming in a roseate glow and warm and 
fair as the roses of an early May. The ripples rose and 
fell with the rhythmic modulation of silver bells, while 
the gentle breeze stirred the foliage into a grand whisper- 
ing gallery. The white pinions of a solitary gull coursing 
along the shore shone out like glittering silver, and in 
strong contrast to the idling butterfly warming his velvet 
wings in the bright rays of a meridian sun that so lov- 
ingly added beauty to a few stray violets struggling for 
life in a pinched crevice. Mr. French, the English poet 
and theologian, tells us of the ample dower of nature 
when he declares: 
"Morn has been— and lo 1 how soon 
Has arrived the middle noon, 
And the broad sun's rays do rest 
On some naked mountain's breast. 
Where alone relieves the eye 
Massive shadows as they lie 
In the hollows motionless; 
Still our boat doth onward press. 
Now a peaceful current wide 
Bears it on an ample tide; 
Now the hills retire, and then 
Their broad fronts advance again 
Till the rocks have closed us round, 
And would seem our course to bound; 
But anon a path appears 
And our vessel onward steers, 
Darting rapidly between 
Narrow walls of a ravine." 
The shade of the camp we found very agreeable, for 
the morn had been quite warm, though the waters gave 
up their coolness, which in a measure ternpered the 
scorching rays of the sun. We therefore determined to 
do our angling after supper, when the deep shadows were 
on the water and the trout looking for their evening 
meal. The idle hours in the meantime we could spend 
in some diversion or some exploration where we could 
find the gold and red and purple of the rare wild flowers 
that spring from slender crevice or run riot among the 
wild grassfs and delicate ferns. The golden notes of 
some woodland warbler may perchance fall upon our 
ears, or the antics of the little ground squirrels delight 
the eye. There is much here to interest a lover of nature, 
but of all the "sweet .things there is none so sweet as 
fresh air; one great flower it is, drawn round about, over, 
and inclosing you, like Aphrodite's arms, as if the dome 
of the sky were a bell-flower drooping down over us, and 
the magical essence of it filling all the room of the earth." 
The noon so full of agreeable diversions soon passed, 
and then on supper being served we at once paid our at- 
tentions to the trout family, going over the same course 
we had fished in the morning, and by the same walls of 
granite, boulders, and rain-scooped, tempest-worn crags 
and pinnacles. As we glided along over the haunts of 
the spangled beauties, not a murmur came from the 
spell-Dound trees. The vast boughs hung motionless in 
the silent air. Sometimes the upper branches stirred, 
but while the shadow-haunted plumes rulfled as with a 
passing breath it was a slow, solemn, soundless rhythm, 
"Two quiet for the angle," says Ned, 
"The deep shade and cooling air removes that objec- 
tion," I replied, 
"I hope so." 
"It does, and here is proof of it," for just then some 
purloining beauty made off with my fresh Parmachenee- 
belle which I had attached as my stretcher before leaving 
camp.' You all know how the trout battles, what vault- 
ing, dashing and subtlety he brings to his aid to escape 
captivity. This one showed the same tactics, gave the 
same delight, and with his sad fate the same reward to 
the patient angler. He was fully above the 3lb, notch on 
the scale and of course gleaming in the matchless colors 
of a dying sunset. Nothing more coming to our lures, 
we hasten along and ere we had gone a few rods another 
came at Ned's fiery "dusting brush" like a barnyard 
hawk pouncing on a young chicken. He was a terrible 
fighter, and for a few minutes gave the venerable angler 
a world of trouble in answering his demands for a little 
more line. Reel and line sang and hummed quite lively 
and the rod looked several times as if it would snap in 
twain as butt and tip were showing a desire to kiss each 
other. The originator of the scarlet flambeau held him 
with a master hand, and when he at last saw him duly 
boated drew a long breath and exclaimed: 
"That trout came within an ace of getting the best 
of it." 
"It was that red-headed devil of yours that made him 
caper so lively," 
"How so?" 
"He thought it one of old Lucifer's imps," 
"Even so. He is first a tempter and then a destroyer, 
and that's why he is a dead terror." 
"Abandon hope all ye that toy with me, should be the * 
imprint on that fiery and feathery dead fall of yours." 
"It's a killer every time." 
"Also a monstrosity." 
"Also an originality." 
"A shameful tribute to the profession." 
"An unparalleled deceit." 
And thus the badinage continued, I would deny it, he 
would praise it, and, like the contest between two disci- 
ples of Buckstone, neither would retreat an inch in sup- 
port of his case. The practical illustration of that famous 
fly was chiefly in favor of its originator, but it was so 
directly antagonistic to all known rules governing fly 
making that I began to lose faith in the artistic beauties 
as they come from a master in the art. It is common 
sense to think that with such wonderful vision as a trout 
possesses he would rather take a small fly than a 
large one, but Ned even set that theory aside and used a 
No. 1 and 2 sproat, and with such bushment of feathers 
and wool as to make the appellation "dusting brush" the 
correct one. 
His faith in Sir Izaak, I regret to state, is greatly dis- 
turbed, because that accomplished master of the gentle 
pastime says: "Doubt not but that angling is an art — an 
art worth learning," and his "jury of twelve flies" can be 
tested "to betray and condemn all the trout." Ned should 
read "Favorite Fiies," by Mary Orvis Marbury, and he 
will then see a very large panel of expert anglers who in 
the aggregate give their experience with fully 300 favor- 
ite flies, while he affirms that a half dozen at most, and of 
his own make, are all he desires for an outing. While I 
do not acquiesce in his vagaries, 1 must honestly confess 
that he always secured an equal share of the trout when 
angling with me in either Lake Superior or the famed 
Nipigon, His ingenious fancies in the feathery art have 
been a source of great pleasure to me, but, I will also add, 
of much profit to him. 
As we have followed this subject for the present far 
enough, we will revert once more to its practical part and 
cast our flies for the loveliest fish that swims. We had 
fished the pointed headland that leads to the bay till the 
radiant family evinced by their non-responses that they 
were not just then receiving company. Ned suggested a 
trial of the big rock below and to it we went. He took 
one end and I the other, and never were waters so com- 
pletely showered and danced and skittered with flies as 
those which encompassed the gigantic rock of a hundred 
yards or more. 
As the day was fast sinking and scrolls of pearly clouds 
were drawing themselves around the mountain crests and 
being wafted into the distant air, we concluded to start 
for camp with our two trout without further delay. The 
return trip was one of positive delight, the pictures of 
fading tints, the embodiment of lustrous light and most 
tender of shade, being really indescribable. 
"See where the falling day 
In silence steals away. 
Behind the western hills withdrawn, 
Her flres are quenched, her beauty fled, 
While blushes all her face o'erspread, 
As conscious she had ill fulfilled 
The promise of the dawn." 
Reaching the point where we had caught our trophies 
we made a brief halt, and it was an earnest test between 
