Ava. 15, 1896.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
127 
road, and most of the farm was in a deep bend of the 
Schroon River, where the soil was very rich and from 
which a crop of grain had been taken. It was too late in 
the day to fish or shoot, but my fishing tackle was laid 
out and inspected and we talked of field sports until bed- 
time, when a tired boy turned and caught enormous fish 
which unhooked themselves and either walked back into 
the water on their tails or vanished into air. A squirrel 
which I had killed turned into a live bear and was charg- 
ing me when Mrs. Simpkins called me to breakfast, and 
the real world came suddenly back. If the shade of 
Shakespeare could have spent the night with me he 
would have amended his saying: "Dreams are the chil- 
dren of an idle brain," Mine was busy. 
Bait had been provided and the river was reached. Mr. 
Simpkins had often fished before, but it was evident that 
my schooling under Eeuben Wood and John Atwood ren- 
dered me competent to show him how to rig his lines, 
select his poles and how to properly impale a worm. He 
chose a low point of land where there was a high bank 
and a deep hole on the opposite side, in the bend, and we 
fished. At that early day there were no black bass in 
either Schroon Lake or the river, and we took a fine lot 
of perch and a few other fishes. He was an observant 
man and showed me where kingfishers had nested in a 
hole in the bank, under a stump, and we dug out the nest 
and a lot of fish bones, and the nesting habits of this bird 
were learned. 
Gray squirrels were plenty, they could be seen and 
heard in all directions from the house, and as this kind of 
game was rare about Greenbush, where the little 
chickaree, or red squirrel, was abundant, there was every 
morning either fishing or squirrel shooting, and in the 
evening a shot or two at the great northern hare, a new 
animal to me, which they said was white in winter. 
Mother went home after a week, saying that she had 
eaten fish and game enough to last for some time, and I 
went up the mountain the day before she left and brought 
her five ruffed grouse — we called them "pa'tridges" — to 
take home to the family. I made the usual promise 
which a mother always expects, to be a good boy; no hard 
matter, with no schoolmaster near and all the time to do 
as I pleased. 
One day we were fishing in the river, taking an occa- 
sional fish and watching little rafts of boards float by, 
when one with a man on it came in sight. He was steer- 
ing it with a pole and starting any others that had lodged 
along the banks; when he saw us he pushed up ashore 
and, after the usual greeting, said: "Simpkins, we are 
going to have a deer hunt day after to-morrow, will you 
go?" 
"Yes, where are you going to make the drive?" 
"Over on the West River, where we went last year. Our 
boys haven't had a bite of venison this summer and they 
think it about time for it, we'll look for you, sure," and 
he poled his raft into the stream and was soon lost to 
sight. 
The "West River" ■was a local term for the Hudson; 
the Schroon, of course, being the "East River." I had 
heard that Simpkins was a mighty hunter, especially good 
at stUl-hunting. He said that the season was too early for 
the latter sport, because the trees and underbrush were in 
full leaf. He brought out his favorite gun, oiled the locks 
and cleaned the barrels. It was a double gun, one barrel 
a rifle and the other a smooth-bore, quite heavy and 
handsomely finished, I had been using a single-barreled 
shotgun on the grouse and squirrels, and had not seen this 
one. Old Gunner, his hound, had an eye on the gun, and 
it might have been hard to say whose excitement was 
greatest, his or mine. There was this difference between 
us: Gunner was asking and expecting to go, and I would 
not ask and did not expect to be invited to join in a hunt 
with men who might not like the intrusion; but you have 
no idea how much I would have liked an invitation! 
"Ever shoot a rifle?" he asked. 
"No, but I've seen a man shoot at a mark lots of times, 
and have often sighted it on his targets, and I know how 
to load one." Aii this to show that I thought I could be 
trusted with a rifle if he'd only ask me to go. O, if he 
only would! "I know you put the bullet on your flat 
hand and pour on powder enough to cover it, and that's 
the proper load. Tnen you put the powder in the rifle 
and lay a greased patch over the muzzle, put the bullet 
on the patch and force it down, way down until it is 
home and the ramrod bounds on it. The rod won't bounce 
if the bullet isn't home." This was to give him further 
proof that I knew enough about a rifle to use one. Would 
ne ever take the hint? 
"I've killed eleven deer with this gun," said he, "and I 
haven't had it two years. Killed ail but one with the rifle 
barrel. That one was close by, not over 30yds. off, and I 
missed it clean with the rifle; the bullet may have touched 
a twig and gone off somewhere else, for the deer stood 
broaoside to and didn't see me. He jumped at the shot, 
but I fetched him with buckshot in the other barrel. Ever 
see a deer?" 
"Not a live one, only stuffed ones in the museum, but 
I would like" to see a real live deer in the woods, jumping 
as they do in pictures." There! that was a distinct bid for 
an invitation. If it didn't come after that he was a stu- 
pid, or did not want me. He put the gun aside, filled his 
powder horn, spent much time with other things and then 
slowly said: 
"How would you like to go along?" 
"Oh, Mr. Simpkins! you don't mean it! I would be in 
the way, I fear." 
"No, you can go if you like; I'll go up the hill to Kel-. 
lam's and borrow a rifle for you; he has three, and you 
can practice with it this afternoon and we'll get an early 
etari in the morning." 
My rifle shooting that afternoon did not break all rec- 
ords, unless for bad off-hand shooting; but who could do 
good shooting when all a-tremble from head to foot? The 
tact that many monstrous bucks were killed in bed that 
night proves tnat 1 had some sleep. Otherwise it might 
be doubted if an eye was closed. 
By the time we had gone a few miles the parly num- 
bered six men and about as many hounds. A man took 
all the dogs to put them out singly as he found a deer 
track, while the rest went on to take stands on the run- 
ways, I was placed in a road looking over a field to a 
piece of woods some SOOyds. off, and told to watch a point 
where a deer might come out, but not to shoot until it had 
jumped the rail fence, when it might stop to look up and 
down the road if not frightened, and so a good shot might 
be had. It seemed many hours, it may have been half of 
cue, when a hound that had been baying for some time in 
the distance was evidently getting nearer, still he was 
afar off. A farm wagon came rattling up the road with 
three men in it. When opposite me, as I turned to look 
at them, one arose and yelled, "See that deer!" I looked 
back and saw something like a small calf turn and re- 
enter the woods. So that little thing was a deer! Where 
was the hound? In the pictures the hounds were press- 
ing the deer hard, some of them tearing at his flanks (see 
advertisement of the Bromfield House m one of the last 
pages of this journal). More time passed, such long 
hours I never did see, the sun was not yet at meridian, 
and the hoimd kept slowly approaching — O, so slow — and 
finally old Gunner came out of that bit of wood, giving 
tongue at intervals, and after slowly getting to the place 
where I first ■ saw the deer he turned and followed its 
track, making a V out into the field. I had at last seen a 
real live deer! That was a thing to tell John Atwood and 
Port Tyler, and to brag about. 
After a while a man appeared from the woods. It was 
the driver. He saw the track and wondered what turned 
the deer back. He said that it was an old runway that 
was seldom used and none of the party wanted it, "Yet," 
said he, "the first deer of the season took it, and you'd 
have got a shot only for that wagon." 
Perhaps it was well that it turned out so, for, as he 
spoke, a rifle shot was heard off to the left, where the 
deer went, and we learned afterward that one of the 
party stopped my deer a mile above, and it was a fair- 
sized doe in good condition. 
So far there was a lack of excitement in hounding deer, 
The long solitary waits, not long in reality, but intoler- 
ably so to a boy whose gun was ready, and as he fixed 
himself on the runway mentally said: "Now bring on 
your deer!" 
The patience of the fisherman somehow was mislaid. 
The case was different. Of course you must wait in the 
quiet of a mill pond for a fish to come to sample your bait, 
but here was a noisy, bell-mouthed hound proclaiming 
his every move, bringing to you a new game of great size, 
which tested your ^marksmanship to its utmost, with a 16 
to 1 chance that you missed him. He would not swallow 
your hook and be pulled in by main strength, O, no. 
Here I give up the comparison. We all know just how 
it is. I've tried to tell how I think it is, buf give it up. 
Can't do it. 
The driver took me over to the river, and put me on a 
runway there, and left. He said that the other hounds 
were off, some out of hearing, but they might bring a 
deer this way. I was on a high bank on an outside bend 
of the river and could see down to the next bend, about 
100yds. , and there was a shallow riflfle that a deer could 
walk from opposite my station to the point below, on 
my side. I ate my lunch. Squirrels jumped about and 
a partridge alighted on a nearby limb. Temptation is 
one of the hardest things to resist, and I have not always 
been equal to the task, but this day I simply took good 
aim at them and thought. It had been impressed upon 
me that I must not shoot except at a deer, that a shot 
from me would testify that a deer had come my way and 
would confuse others. Hounds were tonguing in several 
directions. I had about lost interest in this stupid work 
when, "flecked with leafy light and shadow," a buck 
walked down the opposite slope into the river. It must 
be a dream. There were no hounds after him that could 
be seen, and it seemed as if I was choking. He drank, 
looked around and drank again. I must shoot hioal That 
fact slowly came to me, but I was all a-tremble. He 
walked diagonally across the river. I aimed and fired. 
He fljundered in the water. Surely he was hit, but might 
escape! Never thinking to load and shoot again, 1 left 
the rifle, and with bare hands started for the buck 
to take him by the horns and drown him. I slipped 
on the slimy stones and fell twice, but the buck 
was slipping and falling also. I was within 30ft. 
of him wiien a rifle shot dropped him. It was the driver 
who had hurried forward at the sound of my shot, and 
just in time to save the day. Unless a scratcb on top of 
the neck was made by my ballet, I missed him. The slip- 
pery stones threw him wnen he tried to run, and to my 
statement that I intended to take him by the horns and 
drown him the driver said : " You durned fool, he'd 'a' ripped 
all the clothes offen you with his forefeet, and might 'a' 
taken your bowels out at the same time. Don't you ever go 
to f oolin' with a deer that has got fight left in him, or you 
won't have any left in you," The shots brought two more 
out of the party, and the buck was soon skinned and cut 
up for transportation. Although the horns, being in the 
velvet, were said to be of no use, I insisted on saving 
them as a trophy of my "first deer," for, likeFalstaff over 
the dead body of Hotspur, I intended to "swear I Jiilled 
him myself." So the trophy was j^.reserved and taken to 
Albany, and for many years I did more lying about kill- 
ing that buck than a dealer m garden seeds does in his 
spring catalogue. Simpkins said: "A little lie like that 
never hurts anybody. Most all young hunters lie a little 
about their game." At first it hurt me to lie about it — 
especially to old Port Tyler, who wanted all the details — 
but the story soon assumed the veracity of history. In 
later life I killed many deer, but they somehow never 
assumed the importance of the only one I ever lied about. 
I wrote John Atwood about it, quoting from "As You 
Like It:" "Which is he that killed the deer?" and winding 
up by telling him he didn't know a thing about the jump 
or the deer, for they couldn't make over 15ft. at a jump. 
A quarter of the doe was given me to carry. I was put 
on the road home, wnile the rest went another way. S uop- 
ping at Kellam's about sundown, his wife gave me supper, 
and leaving the rifle, I took a shotgun and shouldered the 
venison for home, down the mountain. An unearthly 
scream came from a distance, and my pace quickened. 
Again the horrible scream was given closer by, and with 
an open pocket knife and a cocked gun I jumped a ong 
down hill, leaving tracks that surprised men who saw . 
them next day. Getting over a rail fence near the house 
the knife pricked my wrist, and it seemed as if the ani- 
mal had me. I was faint with fright, and it was some 
time before Mrs. Simpkins could learn the cause. Her 
husband came about midnight and heard her story as he 
was about to get in bed. He dressed, called Gunner, took 
his rifle and started up the hill. Kellam and he put the 
dogs out, but old Gunner soon came back, cried, got be- 
tween his master's legs and could not be made to stir. A 
puppy went on and put up something, but they could not 
loUow it. A panther had been about the locality some 
time, and shortly after I left Mr, Simpkins killed a large 
one, A Mr. Beadenell said it was a blue jay that screamed 
and scared me, but when I told this to my friend he said; 
"Blue jays don't scream after dark," and that settled the 
jay question. 
At this time Simpkins was perhaps thirty five years old. 
He had not lived near Warrensburgh long and moved 
West a few years later, and I lost track of him. Memory 
recalls him as an intelligent farmer, a good hunter, an in- 
different fisherman and a good friend who helped me lie 
about that deer, for which let us hope that both he and I 
have been forgiven, and that the recording angel, as in 
the case of "Uncle Toby," after recording the sin dropped 
a tear upon the page and blotted it out forever. 
Feed Mather. 
ANGLING NOTES. 
Fly-FIshlng at Night for Rainbow Trout. 
My memorandum book has some notes concerning my 
recent experience in fly-fishing for rainbow trout at 
night, and I intended to write them out for this column. 
Before I could do so my attention was called to a query 
in a monthly publication: "Is trout fishing at night con- 
sidered legitimate sporl?" The editor of the publication 
says in reply, "Among anglers who follow trout fishing 
for the ethical pleasure it affords and not for the pounds 
of fish, cruelly fishing for trout at night, especially with 
natural bait, is not considered legitimate. At that time 
the trout are oblivious to danger, and, if hungry, the 
merest tyro can catch them. But the great body of fish- 
ermen do not recognize this law of angUng ethics and 
you will not be reflected upon," etc. 
This, being interpreted according to the law of the 
Cadi, means that the great body of fishermen are blind to 
the fact that they uphold an illegitimate method of fish- 
ing. Now, if it is only the small body of fishermen who 
consider night fishing illegitimate, which is apt to be 
right in the construction of the ethical question, the 
majority or the minority? 
Had I been the author of that answer, after reading it 
in cold type, I would hav e felt it my duty to call it in for 
repairs out of respect to the opinion of tne great body of 
fishermen. If a well-known name had not been signed 
to the answer I would have said that the writer never 
caught a trout at night. Perhaps my sensibilities are 
blunted, but I must confess that I do not comprehend 
why it is more cruel to fool a trout at night than it is in 
daylight. I have never fished for trout at night with 
natural bait, but I have often fished for them at night 
with the fly, and my experience has been such that on 
this subject I can honestly say in the words of George 
Washington, "I would rather be right than flock with 
the minority." 
Another thing: if "the merest tyro" can catch trotlt at 
night with the fly he can catch them at any time and 
anywhere that they will rise to the flj, if I am a judge of 
the matter. But my own fishing is getting cold, alchough 
1 suppose after reading the answer I have quoted I ought 
to swear that I never caught a trout at night instead of 
confessing my sin. 
I was at St. Hubert's Inn, at the lower end of the 
Keene Valley, ten days ago, and had to visit Chapel 
Pond, which belongs to the State, in a business way. I 
had a limited time to do certain things, and the pro- 
gramme called for a visit to Chapel Pond between dinner 
at 6:30 P. M. and 6 o'clock tho next morning, when I was 
to start for Westport. Mr. W, Scott Brown, the superin- 
tendent of the Adirondack Mountain Reserve Association, 
who was to go with me, said I might get some rainbow 
trout from the pond after dark, as they would not rise 
during the day. My rod case with my rods had been left 
at Lake Placid, and Mr. Brown very kindly loaned me 
one of his, and I had a fly-book and several reels in my 
bag. Chapel Pond is beautifully situated and is one of 
the finest ponds in the Adirondacks, containing brook, 
rainbow and lake trout, although it is not fitted for the 
last-named species, which have been planted in it within 
recent years. You approach the pond through a grove, 
chiefly of white birches, and on the shore opposite from 
the road a great cliff rises, seemingly from the water's 
edne. Directly under this cliff, when you reach it, you 
find a mere ribbon of shore and on it a lady has 
a camp as novel and picturesque as can be found 
in the Adirondacks. A visitor to the camp has a 
feeling that a fragment of that cliff is very liable 
to come tumbling down at any moment and bury the 
camp and occupants under tons of Paleozoic rock, but 
when one forgets that destruction is frowning from aloft 
the camp is a very charming spot and as secluded as if it 
were provided with moat, portcullis, men-at-arms and all 
the trimmings of an ancient castle, I called upon the 
ladye of the castle, for it was her warder who owns the 
boats on the pond, Will Owens by name. 
If my call was one of courtesy, inclination prolonged it, 
and when I got into the boat to fiah it was half an hour 
after 9 o'clock. Half the pond under the cliff was in the 
shadow and half in the bright moonlight, and the white 
birches stood out like ghostly sentinels as the moonlight 
fell upon them. 
Owens confirmed what I had previously been told, 
that the rainbow trout would not rise to the fly during the 
day and there was no certainty that they would do so at 
night, although that was when they were caught, if ever. 
He said that a visitor to the pond once saw the trout 
jumping apparently all over the surface of the water, and 
went out in high feather to fish. Ha came in without a 
fish, and said that, though the trout were so thick and so 
huaary they were eating the bushes on the shore, they 
would not look at his flies. Owens told me they would 
rise to nothing but a white miller, and although my fly- 
book contained two gross of flies or more, there was not a 
white miller in the lot, so I put on a white-winged coach- 
man and a duaty miller. Owens offered me a white mil- 
ler, but I declined it in spite of his protests, as I beHeved 
that either of my flies would answer the purpose. I got 
one strike from what seemed to be a big trout, and pricked 
him as I turned him over in the water, and alter that the 
trout in that pond had no further use for my flies. I was 
finally forced to accept, with thanks, a white miller from 
Owens, and thereafter I got some fish. 
Of six fish taken there was but one strike with a rush 
and splash and that was my first one that got away. Five 
of the trout were rainbows and one was a brook trout, and 
they ran from just under ^Ib. to just under lib. in 
weight. The "strike" was peculiar and did not deserve 
the name. The boat was paddled parallel to and within 
casting distance of the shore, and I cast close inshore and 
slowly drew the fly into deeper water. The strike was 
very faint and like catching th^ hook on a blade of grass, 
