88 
EST AND STREAM, 
tJuLir 31, 1897, 
A High-Prlced Guide. 
•A GENTLEMAN of the East, who was probablj' in search of 
information for business purposes in regard to good shooting 
country, recently sent out to Mr. W. B. Mershon, of Sagi- 
naw, E. S , Mich., what was probably a circular letter, 
though on its face it did not bear the appearance of one. 
The sender probably had very little acquaintance with Mr. 
Mershon, for the document in question read as follows: 
"Mr. W. B. Mebshon, Saginaw, Micb. — Dear Sir: Will 
you kindly tell me what inducements your country offers to 
sportsmen. What different kinds of game you have, and 
what you consider the best season for each kind. Also let 
me know what accommodations you have for taking care of 
sportsmen, how many you can' take care of at one time, 
whether you have dogs, horses and decoys if necessary. 
Give me an idea of your usual prices and such information 
as you may deem necessary. An early reply will greatly 
oblige." 
It happens that Mr. Mershon is not engaged in the busi- 
ness of guiding, though be does shoot and Sen a good deal on 
bis own account. He owns a part of the famous shooting 
car, the W. B. Mershon, which has been elsewhere men- 
tioned in Forest mv Stream from time to time, and when 
he is not out on some shooting or fishing trip, or engaged in 
handling a political campaign, Mr. Mershon runs a good, 
healthy business of his own. He receives the request for in- 
formation as to his ability at guiding very good naturedly, 
and says that be has advised the inquirer that Saginaw is not 
exactly the sort of town the inquirer thinks, but has several 
lioarding houses, about the size of the Adams House, the 
YiEcent or the old Tremont, of Boston, and the hunter could 
probably get a lunch put up without much difficulty. "As 
to what I charge,"^ said Mr. Mershon, "I said it all 
depended on the work I had to to, and that I had come to 
the conclusion, when my term of ofSce as mayor of the 
city came to an end a year ago, that $10,000 was a small 
salary." 
Mr. Meishon is, as I may personally testify, an excellent 
guide, though it is necessary to write him a little in advance, 
as his time is pretty well taken. He is the sort of guide you 
find usually in the South—the sort that will not go hunting 
or fishing with you for anything but the fun of it. Guiding 
is a peculiarly Northern institution. Of all guides I have 
ever had along with me with special cars of their own, Mr. 
Mershon will stand comparison with the b£st. He has 
plenty of decoys and very good dogs, and his table is above 
reproach. I really think Eastern sportsmen might do worse 
than to engage him, if they can stand the price. 
E. Hough. 
1806 BoYCE BmLDiNQ, Chicago. 
Long^ i;slaiid Meadow Hens. 
I DO not understand what the Long Island constables are 
doing. List week a party went to Bock Lead (near Long 
B:ach Hotel) and killed twenty seven meadow hens. It is a 
crime, as just now they have either eggs or young ones. 
Another family in Christian Huck has been living for seve- 
ral weeks on meadow hen eggs, picked out in the meadow. 
C. B. 
[The New Tork law protects meadow hens from Aug 16 
to Jan. Ij and permits them to be killed at other times.} 
Proprietors of fishing resorts will find it profitable to advertise 
ttiem in Fokkst and Stbkaui. 
WHERE TO GO. 
Onb important, useful and considerable part of the FomEsrr add 
Stream's service to the sportsmen's conamuniiy is the informalion 
E:iyen inquirers for shooting and fishing resorts. We make it our 
business to know where to send the sportsmen for large or small 
game, or in quest of his favonite fish, ^ind this knowledge is freely im- 
parted on request. 
On the other hand, we are constantly seeking information of this 
character for the benefit of our patrons, and we invite sportsmen, 
hotel, proprietors and others to communicate to us whatever may be 
of advantage to the sportsman tourist. 
The '^Garne Laws in Brief." 
Thjs current edition of the Oaine Laws in Brief (index page dated 
Aug. 1) contains the fish and game laws for 1897, with a few excep- 
tions, as they will continue in force during the year. As about forty 
States and Provinces have amended their laws this year, the Brief 
has been practically done over new. Sent postpaid by the Forest 
and Stream Pub. Co. on receipt of price, 25 cents. 
THE KINGFISHERS. 
When we went to Preeque Isle Lake, Wisconsin, last year, 
for our summer camp, we were treated so "out o' sight" by 
the C. H. &'D., Monon, and Chicago & Northwestern Rail- 
way people that we have decided to take another hitch at it, 
anu make the camp at the same place, "Skunk P'int," so 
named by Dick Morris on account of a "flock o' skunks" — 
five of them — that had a temporary abiding place under an 
old birch root at the foot of the bank, and only a couple of 
rods or so from the tents, albeit, I "hived" two of them with 
a mink trap and drowned them in the lake. (It may not be 
generally known that a skunk fast in a trap will not open its 
"perfume valve," but may be carried by the trap chain, tied 
to a short pole, as a precautionary measure, to any handy 
water and drowned, without the slightest danger from the 
"hind eend o' the varmint,") 
We found the best fishing in Presque Isle and several other 
nearby lakes that we have had for years, a fine camping 
place on a high and dry point well shaded with a growth of 
hemlock, pine, white cedar and birch, and a wonderful 
spring bubbling out near the lake under the bank a few rods 
away; a spring, the temperature of which was exactly 43°, 
tested by a reliable thermometer. 
We ' 'got onto" this lake through a letter in Eorest and 
Stream of Nov. 3, 1895, and toon the route suggested by the 
writer of that letter, via Green Bay and Powers to Marenisco, 
Michigan, the best connections for anyone going there from 
>outh of Chicago. From Marenisco we drove about fifteen 
miles to the foot of the lake, the last four of which, after 
crossing the State line into Wisconsin, is a ' 'caution to ten- 
der feet." 
However, Mr. E. A. Ormes writes me that he has worked 
that part of the road till it is a very fair road to drive over; 
that both hind wheels of a wagon will stay on the ground at 
the same time, which they wouldn't do when we drove 
over it, 
Ormes runs a summer resort, 40 rods across an arm of the 
lake from Skunk P'int, and it would be hard to find a bet- 
ter place in that region where one could enjoy the solitude 
of the woods and find quiet and rest for the tired brain and 
body, away from the noise, and turmoil, and toil, and dust, 
and dirt, and heat, that make life a burden to the city man 
and woman during the hot months. 
There are more than a dozen lakes that can be reached 
from Presque Isle Lake by portaging from a few rods to a 
mile and a half, the best one in easy reach being Pappoose 
Lake, reached by a portage of about 15 rods across to Katin- 
ka Lake, and another of 100 rods across to Pappoose. We 
took a great many bass out of this lake running from 2 to 
3f lbs. in weight, and several maskinonge. Pappoose Lake 
hcsjasi south of the "divide." its waters finding their way 
into the Mississippi, while Presque Isle Lake, not a mile 
away, has an outlet into Lake Superior through the Presque 
Isle River. There are no maskinonge found in waters north 
of the "divide." We took, while camped there, 519 bass, 
most of which were returned unhurt, a? we had no use for 
them. We got, in all, twenty-five maskinonge— Charley 
Purr the largest, weighing Uilbs., and Dick Morris the 
smallest, a little fellow of Justflb. weight, not much heavier, 
Dick said, than the spoon he took him with. We caught so 
many pike-perch of li to tilbs. in Pappoose Lake that we lost 
the count of them early m the fight. 
We had a good time, a good camp, great fishing, and the 
most glorious spring we have ever found in the North Woods, 
and we are going to leave over the same trail on the 30th-of 
this month and go back and get some more of it all before it 
is gone. 
The latch-string is always hangin' out at the ' 'Camp of the 
Kingfishers" for any brother of the rod to pull and come in. 
Kingfisher. 
Cincinnati, O., July 18. 
ONLY A BROWN-HACKLE. 
Is there anything closer to an angler's heart than his fly- 
book? 1 know of a case where a burglar, among other 
things, took a fly- book. He was arrested, and speedily con- 
victed and imprisoned. He cleared things out pretty well 
in the house, but the owner seemed to care nothing about 
the missing fur coats, sealskin sacques, silverware, and 
other valuable lares and penates, but he did bewail the loss 
of his book of flies. The other things he could buy again, 
but to get together such an assortment of valuable flies 
seemed to him an impossible thing. He had been years col- 
lecting them, picking up odd ones here and there, until, for 
quality and variety, his book could not be excelled, 
It was a fly storehouse, as it were. No matter where he 
intended fishing, or whether for trout, bass or salmon, he 
could always find a choice assortment to draw from with 
which to fill up a supplementary book. 
Although it was some time ago, he yet bewails the loss of 
that fly- book. Many have been the efforts to get track of it, 
but all in vain. He has gone to the expense of sending to 
the prison, in a distant city, and endeavoring to prevail 
upon the convict to divulge the hiding-place of the book, 
but without success. A persistent search of the pawnshops, 
and periodical advertising, have produced no better results. 
There were flies in that book for trout and salmon in Irish 
waters; flies for the salmon and trout of the Scotch lakes 
and the English streams, and flies for the salmon of Norway. 
The favorites from Maine to California, and from one end 
of Canada to another, were collected in that wallet. Any- 
thing and everything, from the feather-down midget with 
cobweb gut to the lordly salmon fly, absolutely irresistible 
to the lurking salmon deep down in the icy pools of the 
Cascapedia. 
There were flies in that book on which famous bass, trout 
and salmon had been hooked, each fly carrying with it me^ 
mories of battles fought from canoes among the rushing, 
swirling waters. 
Almost every angler has a fish skeleton in his closet that 
he carries through life, in the shape of a lost fish. When he 
recalls the loss of that fish a cloud overspreads his face, and, 
disregarding all rules that relate to chestnut stories, for the 
hundredth time in his life goes over the ground again. 
How he struck the fish after the third cast; it was a Jock- 
Scott fly; the way he ran with the line; the number of 
times he broke water, and the length of his leaps; the way 
he sulked, and the short, vicious runs he made; and theia 
came the trying time as he was led up to the gaff, his sil- 
very side showing through the water, and jaws distended — 
and— and — and- just as the guide was about to set the gaff, 
one more frantic twist — the leader parted, and he was ofl!, 
You have caught many salmon in many wateis, but the 
likes of that lost fish you never expect to see again. The 
look of sadness that covers the face of the narrator is simi'ar 
to that expression which always accompanies the tale of the 
stolen fly-book. 
And when you come to think of it, what better diary 
does a man want of his fishing trips than his carefully -kept 
fly-book? In the midst of winter, on a Sunday afternoon, 
you are tempted to spend a few moments looking over your 
tackle. You pick up your fly-book, and, turning over 
leaves and looking through pockets, you stiike reminders of 
happy pleasant days at every turn. 
In one pocket by itself you find a leader and a brown- 
hackle. You carefully take it out and look it over, and get 
to thinking. Y^'ou go back a score of years. It is your 
vacation time, and you are stepping ofl: the train thai has 
brought you from the hot and dusty city. You are full of 
life and enjoying every moment, and bound to get out of 
your two weeks every atom of pleasure. Farmer Brown, 
whose hospitality you have tested on former fishing tiips, is 
there with his rig at the depot. You gaze at the meadows 
and surrounding hills and mountains, and greet them as you 
would old friends. 
Y''ou learn trout never were so plenty, and they're rising 
well to a fly, but the boys stick to " worms" There's a 
monster in the pool below the house, that the boys have all 
had a try at: but it's the same old story, either the line 
breaks or the hook teai-s loose — anyway, they don't get the 
trout, and he is still to be seen at the bottom of the pool. 
This kind of talk you listen to with tingling nerves and 
bated breath. The horse goes too slowly; time flies not fast 
enough until you can get waist-deep in the stream and try 
conclusions with that fish. It's late in the afternojn, but 
you'll have time to change your clothes, get supper, and be 
at the pool before dusk. 
A warm greeting awaits you at the farmhouse, and after 
shaking hands with goodwife Brown, barefooted Samuel, 
who has just brought in the cows, takes you one side and 
tells you the story all over again about the big trout, 
Before sundown, with rod in hand and Sam by your side, 
you are wending your way across the meadows toward the 
a]der=-fringed stream. The fish you are after is a wary old 
fellow, and it takes considerable skill to lure him up. So 
you walk gently, and as you near an open place in the 
alders near the pool, you got on all fours and crawl the rest 
of the way on your belly, being entertained by Sam, who 
gives you the history of that trout in a whisper. The sun 
is down behind the hills, and a gentle breeze comes up rip- 
pling the surface of the water. 
With great caution you straighten out your line, and 
finally make your cast above the pool. You have used but 
a single fly, a brown-hackle, thinking best not to startle the 
trout by loo many flies at once. Luck and fortune are with 
you. A mighty swirl; a disappearance of the fly; a turn of 
the wrist; a bending of the rod; a shrill screech as the line 
pays out; a panorama of an immense trout making a travel- 
ing rainbow of color as he breaks water, and the fight is on 
in earnest. You are on your feet, and into the stream up to 
your waist. You have a veteran to deal with, but the tac- 
tics that have broken the lines and torn loose the hooks of 
the worm-fishing country lads serve no purpose now. The 
supple rod gives no such purchase as the alder pole, and 
there is nothing left for the fish to do but dart and leap 
about, with the gentle but endless strain of the rod and line 
on his jiw. The stream was wide and deep in some spots, 
one after another of which the trout sought in his runs. 
Y''ou are fresh from your desk. Your muscles are soft, 
and already the fight seems a long one to you : but it is no 
time to waver. The fish is less active, but yet full of trick 
and ginger. He doesn't leap so high nor run so far, but 
there is fight in him yet. 
The incessant "Come on" of the rod is telling the story, 
and if luck does not" fail you, in a few minutes more you 
will have him gasping on the sod. As the fish weakens you 
become more carelul and nervous, for it is at the last of the 
fight, as a rule, when the big fish is lost. A slack line just 
for a moment will serve the fish's purpose and see your hook 
ejected from the torn jaw. Sam, with the net, is in the 
stream, behind you, and by your orders he moves to shallow 
water near the bank. Your jtrout is on his side and does 
not evidence any more fight; he is tuckered out — has made 
his good fight and lost. 
You work him slowly toward shallow water, where the 
beach shingles down, and at the word Sam advances from 
behind, and, presto! the trout is safe. You live the whole 
thing all over again, and unconsciously wipe a fi-w beads of 
perspiration from your face. With that old leader and fly 
before you, you make the fight all over as if it were yester- 
day. It-turns back for you the hand of time, and you live 
the scene all over again. What a faculty memory is, and in 
connection with an old fly-book what hours of pleasure one 
can get by associating one with the other. 
What a wealth of old memories; of streams and lakes in 
all parts of the world ; of salmon of mighty weight and 
length; of rainbow trout and busy bass, were gone for ever 
when the burglar laid his sacrilegious hands upon that fly^ 
book. Chas. Christadoko'. 
St. Paul, Minn. 
IN THE SIERRA NEVADAS. 
It was with pleasure and bright anticipations that I looked 
forward to the near approach of June 1, when I was to pack 
my traps and start on my annual outing trip to Donner Lake, 
that gem of mountain waters situated high up in the Sierra 
Nevada Mountains at an altitude of nearly 6,000ft. 
Soon the long looked-for came at last, and with a couple 
of well packed grips I bade adieu to the "City of Sudden 
Deaths," and taking the 6 P. M overland was soon whirl- 
ing away from the rattle, jar and bang of this dusty city, 
away into the Iresh green fields and from the busy haunts of 
trade. 
Truckee was reached in the morning, where we left oijr 
train, and after seeing our traps safely stored we started for 
the glistening waters of Donner, three miles away, 
The smell of the pines was refreshing, the rippliHg, gush' 
ing of the babbling brook, and the pure, bracing mountain 
air added their delights, while in the distance the snow- 
capped mountain range of the lofty Sierras made a picture 
time cannot efface, 
Donner Lake is memorable on account of the tragic fate 
that befell a party of pioneers in the year 1846 While seek- 
ing the new Eldorado, they were overtaken here by a fearful 
snowstorm, and forty- six perished from the untold horrors 
of starvation. 
The lake derives its name from the leader of the party, ' It. 
is a beautiful sheet of water some three miles in length andi 
one in width, and is surrounded on all sides by the Sierrai 
Nevada range. 
A rude cross now marks the spot where, fifty years ago, 
were enacted the scenes of the tragedy. 
Here we are once more at Donner Lake. The gentle 
swish-swash of whose waves seem to extend to us a merry 
greeting. 
After putting our cabin in order and enjoying a quiet 
lunch, with a drink of pure mountain water — which cannot 
be excelled on earth — we draw our rods, and, selecting some 
tempting flies, hurry down to the dam in eager anticipation 
of the good sport to follow. 
Sneaking softly up to the whirling rapids I make a cast, 
when, with a swish, tug and pull, 1 have a beauty, and a 
rainbow, too. Once more, and again do they respond, and 
not until we had landed fifteen beauties — whose cotnbined 
weight was 3 1 Jibs. — did we call a halt. 
Gathering up our fish, we were soon on our way back to i 
the quiet little town of Truckee, and found awaiting us a 
supper prepared by my old fnend Mrs. S 
We were up long before the sun, and after a hearty breakf' 
fast of baked trout, fried chicken, smoking pancakes and hott 
coftee, started out on a sight^seeing expedition, 
After doing the town we laid in our supplies, and, loadiirg 
our luggage, were soon en routu for camp life. Arriving at 
our cabin, which we named Possum Cottage, we flung "Old 
Glory" to the breeze, and after unpacking and setting things 
to rights, settled down to a quiet afternoon at home. After 
a good mghl's rest — being lulled to sleep by the gentle swish 
of the waves and the harsh cry of the coyote— we were gently 
awakened by our old friend of boyhood, Robin Redbreast, 
singing the same sweet song from hts high perch in a moun- 
tain pine near our cabin, and which I had not heard for over 
twenty long years. As I listened I wondered if it was not 
the same bird that used to sing in the maple that stood in front 
of the old home in the far away East. Every morning at 4 
o'clock, as long as I remained, did this same sweet singer visit 
me, and from his shady perch warble the same sweet song.. 
It seemed like meeting an old friend. 
