May 28, 1898.1 
FOREST AND STREAM 
429 
an incentive to the use of language popularly credited 
with a certain result of ruining the chances of a catch. 
We formerly had our caps made with a narrow band 
of thin cord about the rim to hold the flies, but found 
the arrangement bungling and useless; the loop of the 
leader passed over one of the buttons on the side and 
the point of the hook set in the flexible rim holds plenty, 
and a half dozen extra rigged batteries may be easily 
carried, if there were need for so many. 
The stones of the Potomac here are generally a tone- 
some lot. Mostly gneiss, it is like wandering through a 
burnt forest. There are no signs of life in these cinders 
of a primeval furnace. One gets the beauty of mass and 
form, of rugged contour and moss-grown face, but save 
the sparkle of mica sand or coarse attempts at crystal- 
lization of quartz or feldspar it is one grand monotone. 
It is all particularly disappointing to one accustomed 
to the paleontological treasures of the sedimentary de- 
posits in the central Mississippi Valley, where an hour's 
walk along the bed of a little run may be equivalent to 
an excursion a thousand feet deep into the bowels of 
the earth; where every stone is a tomb, on every pebble 
is an epitaph; where innumerable fossils show in every 
shelf of rock; where crinoids are so plenty any careful 
seeker may discover some beautiful lily of an mide- 
scribed species, and the boys play taw with dainty pen- 
tremities; where there are hills of solid coral, on whose 
summits are the tombs of forgotten races. He who 
seeks sermons in stones finds they speak a various lan- 
guage, but it is richer in the heart of the continent. 
The mountains of the East are so old. Born of the 
fire, they bore no life to the surface, and the remains of 
that which lived upon their surface after has been swept 
for a imlhon years to the bottom of the sea. Out of 
the sands from the summits of the Alleghanies and the 
Rockies, carried down by the Ohio and Missouri, the 
coral insects of the great inland Gulf of the Mississippi 
built the foundation for the pivot on which the center of 
our population now rests. The geological beauties of 
these Potomac hills he in their, arrangement of mass. 
In the less rugged middle West it is the detail which 
charms. 
dam, in spring freshets, there rushes a splen- 
did body of water, and canoes have been literally shot 
over this by reckless boatmen; it is a foolhardy risk, 
and the last Maid of the Mist of which there is any 
^^^°^^r ^''^^ ^"^ ^^^^ *o Snd. Members of 
the Washington C. C. sometimes make pleasant excur- 
sions up here, coming up the river from their club house 
to Ead's mill, then a portage into the canal and through 
the Feeder into the level above the dam, where they 
have big water for their voyages of discovery. 
Who uses bait here, as in nearly all parts of the Poto- 
mac, must carry it with him. Time was when a dip net 
would secure all the bait one needed anywhere along 
the shore, but the once or twice overcrowding of bass 
seems to have completely swept tlie river of minnows, 
and a school of any size now above tide water is far 
more of a curiosity than a good bass. 
Henry Talbott. 
Days on the St. Lawrence.*— J. 
BY S. H, HAMMOND. 
We are here, my boatman and T, upon the majestic 
St. Lawrence, opposite the pleasant little town of Cape 
Vincent. The cool breeze, as it comes whispering 
through the woodlands that skirt the shore, and sweep- 
ing lazily over the river, is balmy with the odors and 
genial with the freshness of forest and field. The stars 
have just vanished away into the depths of the sky. In 
the east fleecy clouds, lighted up by the early sun- 
beams into a blaze of glory, are drifting across the 
heavens, while in the west the grayness of the morning 
twilight still lingers. The birds are filling the air with 
the melody of their early songs. The swallow, fresh from 
its night perch, with unwearied wing, glances, in its 
arrowy flight, along the surface of the river, dipping 
Its pinions in the quiet waters as it flies. Above us, high 
in the heavens, almost a speck in the azure depths, soars 
an eagle, "towering in his pride of peace," while away 
beneath him hovers an osprey, turning his keen eye 
downward, watching for his finny prey. The sea gull 
in his ceaseless flight circles around us, scanning with 
curious gaze our little craft. In the bay, at the upper 
end of the island over against us, is a brood of young 
ducks, sporting with unfledged wings in playful gyrations 
around the staid and anxious mother. Away out in mid- 
channel floats a loon, lifting up its clarion voice, ring- 
ing, clear, metallic, like a bugle echoing over the waters, 
and rebounding from the rocky islands. 'The morning is 
perfect in freshness and beauty; brightness and glory are 
all around us. Away behind us, moving slowly through 
the water, is a minnow pendant from my silken line, the 
rod is in my hand, and if bass, or pickerel, or musca- 
lunge— -Hurrah! He has seized the bait! The hook is 
in his jaw, and away he plunges skiving madly through 
the waters in his frantic efforts to escape! Steady now! 
Press the reel- gently! Steady now! Steady! give him 
head! Let him run! See how he makes the line hiss 
again, bending the elastic rod like a reed. Steady! His 
efforts are relaxing! Reel him in! Give him no rest! 
Gently now! But reel him in! Faster! Faster still! 
See! a new fury has seized him! He leaps clear from 
the water, shaking his head fiercely to throw the hook 
loose from his jaw, and away he skives again! Now 
toward the middle of the river; now straight toward 
the bottom; now like an arrow down the stream, now 
again across, this way and that, up, down, every way. 
Steady again! Press the reeJ gently! See! He has ex- 
hausted his energies, and rises to the surface, gasping 
with distended jaws, and ceasing almost to struggle! 
Reel him in! Faster! Faster still! There! He sees 
us, and with renewed fright he plunges away! Let him 
run! It is his last struggle, his last battle for life! Press 
the reel gently! Harder now! He has ceased his flight! 
Reel him in again! Steady! Reach forth the landing 
net! It is under him now! Raise it quickly! There! 
Hurrah! Landed safely! Hurrah! A 5lb. bass! And 
the gamest fish that swims! Hurrah! Hurrah! 
The sun is rising in |he eastj a stream of light blazes 
* See editorial notCr 
through the branches of the island trees, and flashes in 
a long line of brightness across the water, as if a great 
conflagration were raging in the low forests beyond. 
And see how majestically the great orb sweeps in glory 
up over the tree tops, marching with imperial tread into 
the heavens, red and fiery as he gloAvs through the mist 
and smoke and haze that hang, in the early morning, like 
a shadowy veil above the river. A splendid sight, a beau- 
tiful phenomenon is the sunrise. Have you ever wit- 
nessed it? Does your memory call up from the dimness 
of vanished years, from the depths of the long, long 
past, how in the early morning, when summer was in 
its prime, when the air was full of freshness, and balmy 
with cooling dews of the night, when gems were spark- 
ling on the grass, and the leaves on the trees rustled and 
shook themselves with glee as the soft breeze stirred 
among them, when — Hurrah! Again hurrah! Hur- 
rah! The hook is in his jav^^, and away he plunges for 
the broad, deep water, a hundred, two hundred feet. 
Give him play, but press the reel always. There must 
be no slack, or he is gone; keep the line taut always, 
feeling him always; restrain him in his flight; reel him in 
if he pauses; give him no rest. There he goes again for 
the bottom. Let him dive, but keep your thumb on the 
reel, and your rod bent. See, he ceases to struggle, 
holding back, like an obstinate mule. Reel him in! See, 
he comes to the surface. Reel him in! Faster! Faster 
still! Handle the landing net. But no! One more 
struggle for life, and away he plunges again! But no 
matter! He is ours. Let him run, but press the reel. 
Harder now! See, he has surrendered. He floats on 
the surface, rolls over and over, as you reel him in. 
There! Lift away! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! A 
lolb. pickerel! Hurrah! Put on another minnow and 
row along. 
I was saying something about the glories of the early 
morning, the splendor of a summer sunrise. I think I 
was asking you if you remembered having seen the stars 
stealing away into the vaults above, withdrawing their 
watch from the sky, or noted the lighting up of the 
east, when the sun rose from his bed of darkness, flash- 
ing his brightness across the heavens, gilding with glory 
the mountain peaks, and chasing the bright shadows 
down their rugged sides, and bounding like a courser 
above the hills, started on his career across the sky. If 
you have not noted how full of joy and gladness every 
living thing seemed to be, and how a shout of rejoicing, 
a hallelujah, an anthem of praise, a loud shout of — 
Another! No! he's gone! No, again. He's there! 
Hurrah! Reel him in! But how is this? No resistance! 
No struggle! A surrendering without an effort? No 
battle for life? Well, reel him in! Pshaw! A plebeian 
perch! Top him overboard. Who courted his acquaint- 
ance? Or what right had he to thrust himself into the 
company of his betters? Top him overboard. Send him 
back to his vulgar associates with the practical admoni- 
tion he has received, and a message of warning. His 
insignificance is his protection. Let him be cautious, 
however, for the future. There be those to whom every- 
thing is fish that comes to their net, and once in their 
hands there would be an end of his career in the bright 
waters of the St. Lawrence. Top him overboard. 
I was speaking of the sunrise. I was endeavoring to 
pursuade you to search among the caverns of your 
memory, to call up from the twilight of vanished years 
recollections of the change, from the dark silent inani- 
tion of night to the recuperated vitality the brightness 
and glory of the morning, where nature, starting from 
her slumbers, donned her robes of beauty and — What is 
that? Has the hook struck the bottom? Are we fast to 
a rock, or a sunken log, or a root? Back, boatman! 
Back, or my line will be parted. But see! Hurrah! I 
am fast to no rock, no sunken log, no root, no Head 
thing! Per Jupiter! there is life, activity, strength at 
the other end of my line! Hurrah! Hurrah! There 
must be skill, coolness, science in this contest! Press 
the reel! Harder! Harder still! Measure his strength, 
liut remember that the line by which you hold him is 
frail. He must not be permitted to exhaust it. An in- 
stant of dead pull and he is gone, and an instant of slack 
and he may throw the hook loose from his jaw. Feel 
him always, but play the elasticity of the rod against his 
strength, or he will snap the line like a pack thread. 
Press the reel harder, but let it whirl. See! there is 
scarce half a dozen fathoms of line left! Check him in 
his flight! Let him bend the elastic rod into a semicircle, 
but let the reel turn! Pull, boatman, pull in the direc- 
tion of the flying fish, follow swiftly in his wake! Slow- 
ly now! There! He has paused in his career. Reel him 
in! See! He darts now directly toward you! Reel 
him in! Faster! Faster yet! Here he stops again! 
Gently now! But reel him in! Keep him busy — ^give 
him no time to consider- — no time to calculate the means 
of escape. There he goes again! Let him run, but 
press the reel. Keep the rod bent, feeling him always. 
He is becoming exhausted now! His strength is failing, 
reel him in again! See! He rises to the surface, gasp- 
ing with distended jaws for breath! Jupiter Tonans! 
what a fish. Boatman, handle the landing net, . be 
ready to lift him in. But steady! Not yet! Make no 
motion; the battle is not over. One more struggle and 
we have him! There, he sees us, and away he plunges! 
Steady now! Give him a 100, 200ft. of line, but press the 
reel always. Harder! Harder now! There — his flight is 
over. He has surrendered to his destiny. Reel him in. 
Now boatman, the net. Steady! It is under him! Hoist 
away! Seize him by the gills! Safely landed! Hurrah! 
A 3olb. muscalunge! Hurrah! Hurrah! 
I despair, my friend, of the sunrise. Permit me, how- 
ever, to say in the earnestness of perfect sincerity, that 
the sun still rises in the morning as gloriously as it did 
long ago, when you and I were young; when life 
with us was in its morning; when our steps as our 
hearts were light, before time had laid his hand upon our 
heads, sprinkling them with the frosts of age, or his 
"effacing finger" had swept our unfurrowed faces. I 
speak of the fact on no doubtful authority. My senses 
are my witnesses. I have seen the stars vanish away, and 
the sun rise in his glory — home how, boatman, to break- 
fast ' 
The FoBEST AND SteeAm is put to press each week on 
Tuesda/y. Correspondence intended for publication 
should reach us at the latest by Monday, and as rriv-c^ 
ftrlier fts fracUcable, 
CHICAGO AND THE WEST. 
A New Sort of Fly-Fisfalng. 
Chicago, 111., May 19. — I have had occasion tcJ men- 
tion a number of times this season the lovely little stream 
known as the Prairie River of Wisconsin, and shall take 
this opportunity to speak of it from a personal acquaint- 
ance. It may perhaps be remembered by some of those 
who make enquiry at this office for good trout fishing 
in the pine region north of Chicago, that I have many 
times said I had never found a stream in all Wisconsin 
where c. man could v^^ade comfortably, could cast the fly 
comfortably and could really catch a good number of 
trout. I have fished perhaps fifty streams m that State, 
but have found that I arrived too late to get good fish- 
ing on any of the streams which offered practical fly- 
fishing. I have found many good streams where one 
could take plenty of trout by bait fishing, or by fly- 
fishing a part of the time, as the brush and windfalls 
permitted. I have tried the great Brule River, once a 
magnificent stream, and still good at times, but that is a 
boating river and is nowadays notoriously capricious as 
to trout. Never, until this pj*6t week, have I found the 
stream which may be called ab«olutely ideal for the lover 
of that most fascinating sport, wading and casting for 
trout with the fly — and catching them ! I give my word 
that the Prairie River is all of that, this season, and I 
hope it will long remain so. As I have earlier stated, the 
stream is reached via Merrill, Wis., on the Chicago, Mil- 
waukee & St. Paul Railroad, thence by wagon some six- 
teen miles to points near Dudley post-office, at which 
point there are good accommodations. 
I personally stopped at Delos Cone's farm house, a 
couple of miles lower down the stream, where we found 
the chances for large trout better. Here the stream runs 
within a stone's throw of the house, and the place is all 
right for a fisherman. We usually took the water a mile 
or so below Cone's, and fished down so that we had about 
three miles or so to walk at evening. Mr. Cone always 
comes out with a rig in the evening when not busy, so 
that the trip home is not so long. At the time of my 
fishing there the water was low, a threatened log drive 
being providentially postponed on that account. I found 
the stream perhaps 50 to looft. wide, with no tangle' of 
forest to prevent perfect casting. The bottom is not 
sandy like that of many of the Michigan south peninsula 
streams, and a nicer water to wade a man never stuck Iris 
foot into. The bottom is rock and pebble, and nowhere 
did we find the water too deep to fish in hip boots. I did 
not once put on waders, and yet we crossed the river as 
we liked and only took to the woods at one bend, where 
we could not quite get through without going over our 
boots. I suhniit that all these coHditions show a stream 
simply ideal. When I add that catches of over fifty 
trout to the rod, all on the fly, were many times made at 
Dudley's place above us by anglers fishing there, that 
my companion had taken much more than that in his 
fishing on several days, that we took ourselves each day 
something like 2olbs. of trout whose average was over a 
J41b., that we had several up to a pound in weight and 
very many ^Ib., I shall have said all that any trout fisher 
who knows Wisconsin cares to hear. Suck fishing is 
not much to speak of from the standpoint of Canada, 
New Brunswick, or Maine, but it is a great deal to say 
for any trout fishing accessible from Chicago so easily 
as this. I do not hesitate to say that the basket of 
trout I brought back with me was the finest I have ever 
seen come into this city from north of here. Lest I be 
accused of boasting. I hasten to say that I did not catch 
all of them, nor half of them, though they were all taken 
fairly on the fly. On the train with me were Messrs. 
Harris and Hilliard, whose take I mentioned last week. 
They freely admitted that they had seen no such trout 
at the place where they were fishing. All parties who 
know that river and its habitues also admit that no one 
who fishes there ever takes such trout as we had. Let 
all this be noted, and presently there shall appear the 
reason for my heading to this story, wherein I claim to 
have discovered a new style of fisbing with the fly, or 
rath»r to have discovered the man who discovered it, 
which is the same thing so far as Forest and Stream 
is concerned. 
How the Tip Came. 
I stated a while ago that a Mr. Edward Taylor had sev- 
eral times come into this office to speak of this Prairie 
River and to ask me to come up there with him. He 
always said that he had heard I liked to cast fly for 
trout, and that he was very fond of that sport himself. 
He also said that he never cared to fish for little trout, 
but worked after the big on«s, and be told me some- 
thing of his method of getting them, which I presumed 
must be something similar to dry fly-fishing. After a 
time I learned that Mr. Taylor was up on the Prairie, 
and as I happened to be in Northern Wisconsin, I 
made a long trip across country, partly to gratify my 
natural love for a day on a trout stream, and partly to 
see if there was anything to the news of a new thing wkich 
I had gotten track of. The result of the trip was a 
great satisfaction both in a personal and a newspaper 
sense. I think Mr. Tajdor Has invented a sort of fty- 
fishing which certainly is not wet fly-fishing, certainly 
is not dry fly-fishing, certainly is not fishing such ae I 
have ever heard of before, and which just as certainly is 
the most killing wav of taking large trout I ever saw or 
heard of. So confltdent am I of this that I would very 
cheerfully back him against any amgler, I do not care 
how skillful he may be in other styles, but who has not 
mastered this way of fishing for trout with the fly. I 
have never seen it described in any sporting paper. .It 
has nothing to do with long distance casting with the 
fly. Mr. Taylor has had a lot of the cracks at that 
sort of thing with him on the Prairie River, and has 
beaten them until they wera ashamed of themselves. It 
is not a question of "accuracy and delicacy." which I am 
now ready to classify as among the popular but exploded 
fallacies which have long decorated the literature of the 
fly. It isn't any sort of trick— -no baited fly or that sort 
of thing. I will say that we waded right down oh to our 
big trout, caught them mth a line not much longer than 
the rod, cai^ght them on the lightest sort of trout ro.ds 
(40Z. rods), caught them on a single fly or at most two 
flfps tjefi ipT the cast, and sp far from trying to do that 
