May io, igos.J 
■FOREST AND STREAM. 
867 
Random Notes of an Angler* 
Concerning Trout. 
Yes, ten or a dozen good trout in a day's fishing and 
killed in a sportsmanlike manner ought to be enough 
to satisfy anyone. We should remember that the great 
army of anglers is rapidly increasing, and the newcomers 
are entitled to a fair share. 
It gives me that tired feeling to hear a fisherman as 
he puts up his rod for the night exclaim: ''By Jove! I 
killed thirty brace of elegant fish to-day;" or, "My big 
creel was full to overflowing;" or, "We killed four dozen 
in addition to those we returned to the water." Our 
rapidly depleting waters cannot stand such onslaughts. 
Of course, in the fifty years in which I have handled the 
rod, I have many times exceeded the limit I have named, 
but it was long ago, and I am very sorry for it; but 
although I have thus been a transgessor I will say that 
never have I -wasted a pound of fish or meat in all my 
outings; every ounce has been used and in a proper 
manner. 
Good Days and Blank Days. 
Now, though, ten or a dozen good fish make a very 
satisfactory catch — and by good fish I do not mean the 
little six inch beauties that one takes in the mountain 
brooks nor the Rangeley giants, but nice, half or three- 
quarter pound trout, in my opinion the ideal size for these 
gamy fish. Now, we have all of us many a time returned 
to camp after a hard day's work with not half so many; 
in fact, have we not had days which were absolutely 
blank? and why? The fish were undoubtedly there; we 
used flies which had hitherto been successful, but the 
trout would have none of them; not a fin moved. 
Steve Morse, my old Rangeley guide, many years ago 
used to say that "trout are mighty notional critters; more 
notional than a woman ever was; you can never count 
on 'em; when they will, they will, and, contrariwise, when 
they won't they won't, and that's all there is to it." 
Dozens of times have I tried to ascertain the cause of 
their "backwardness to come forward" that they" have 
manifested, but I have never solved the problem satis- 
factorily. Steve used to say, "It's no Use to bother with 
them if they are not rising; they won't come to your 
flies no matter what you throw to them, and if they're 
not feeding ir'-s no use to try them with bait." 
After close observation I am convinced that while all 
fishes are quite susceptible to barometrical changes, the 
Salmonidae are peculiarly so. 
Trout are Gojd Baromelerr. 
Time and again have I noticed that when the mercury 
indicated a "change" in the weather, the fish were more 
active and came to the fly with greater avidity than at 
any other time. That when it stood at "Fair" they took 
the fly and bait impartially, and with perhaps normal 
eagerness, if such an expressian may be used, and when 
it registered "Stormy," even though the skies were al- 
most clear, they refused to come to the fly, or only rose 
to it in a sort of perfunctory way, but they took the bait 
most greedily. But, and there seems to be a qualifica- 
tion for-every statement, I have found that if the wind 
at the time of an approaching storm blew from the east, 
both flies and bait were taken very sparingly. 
Trw! Hxvi their Fast Days, 
That trout should abstain from feeding absolutely and 
for a number of days at a time no matter what the condi- 
tions of the weather may be, is a curious trait that I have 
never been able to understand. 
Many years ago, when the Rangeley stream was open 
to the public, it was a favorite piece of water to me, and 
many a nice catch of the beautiful silvery trout that it 
contains have I taken from it. 
Like the trout of other waters, they had their moods 
and caprices, and sometimes there were very blank days. 
On one occasion I failed to move a trout for forty-eight 
hours. Although I tried every fly that I thought would 
prove an attractive lure, failure was my only reward. 
At last my guide, Billy Soule, who was then but a well 
grown stripling, made, under my direction, a couple of 
long birchbark cones and, placing the small ends over 
my eyes and immersing the large ends beneath the sur- 
face of the water — this was in the Big Eddy over which 
our boat had been allowed to slowly swing from a killick 
which had been dropped in the stream above — I examined 
ihe water, the whole of which, even to the bottom of the 
pool, was as clear to the vision as is the air. 
Hjw to Study Trout in their Native Element, 
A few moments' inspection of the bottom disclosed to 
view a very large number of trout varying in size from 
six inches to twelve or fifteen in length. 
Motionless they lay almost at the bottom and close 
together, an occasional flitting of a tail or the gleam of 
a silvery side alone indicating that they were living fish. 
Swimming above and among them were great numbers 
of minnows and small shiners upon which the trout 
largely subsist, particularly in the spring and early sum- 
mer, and for a long time I watched them, expecting 
that the trout would capture some of them, but none of 
the minnows were taken and they continued to swim 
about with perfect abandon; they seemed to know, per- 
haps instinctively, that they were safe from molestation. 
"I've found out why we cannot rise the fish," I at 
length exclaimed to my guide. "They are simply glutted 
with food, the pool is full of minnows." 
"Maybe so," he replied; "they must be crammed, or 
the minnows would fight shy of them." 
"I wish we had a bait hook and a few angle worms," 
said I. "Perhaps a change of food might tempt them 
I'd ]ike to get two or three to ascertain if they are over- 
fed." 
"Here they are," was his reply. "I always calklate to 
have them along; they often come in handy." 
In a few moments the hook was baited and dropped 
to the bottom among the fish. 
Under -my direction the guide moved, it about, but 
notice was taken of it, though the worms were squirm- 
ing in a way that ought to tempt any well-disposed trout. 
At length it hung close to the mouth of one of the 
largest of the fish, and although it was done listlessly and 
without apparent effort, the bait was sucked in and swal- 
lowed. 
"You've got one, Billy," I exclaimed; "haul him up." 
With a quick strike and a few energetic pulls the trout 
was landed flopping most lustily in the boat. The hook, 
again baited, was dropped among the fish and another 
large one was lifted, and, later, two more. 
Trout with Empty Stomachs. 
Watching them through my cones as the bait moved 
among them, I saw that, as in the first instance, the lure 
was not seized but was lazily drawn in just as it would 
pass into the mouth of a sucker. Lifting the killick we 
moved the boat to the shore, where the trout were 
dressed and their stomachs examined. Greatly to my 
surprise, they were empty, nothing but a small quantity 
of a yellowish fluid similar to that which is found in the 
stomach of a salmon which has been long run from the 
sea, being present. 
"Well, that beats me," exclaimed the guide, "instead 
of being glutted, they ain't feeding at all; now, why do 
you suppose they are fasting at this time of the year, 
and with plenty of food all around them?'' 
The question was a poser, and I have never been able 
to answer it satisfactorily to. myself. 
A number of similar instances have passed under my 
observation, enough certainly to establish the fact that at 
certain periods trout have a fasting spell, sometimes 
several days in length. The Rangeley occurrence is par- 
ticularly difficult to account for; the season was not far 
advanced and the water was cold and the weather settled, 
but on some other occasions when the water was warm 
at the bottom I ascribed the abstinence from feeding to 
that fact. 
During the latter part of August, iqoi, I fished some 
large pools on the Maitland River (N. S.), having for 
my guide the well-known moose hunter, Robert Rowter, 
but my success, although I worked diligently, was more 
than indifferent. The trout were there in considerable 
numbers, but the fly had no attractions for them, and bait 
which we tried several times failed to tempt them. 
Now, that water was warm at the surface, but it was 
quite cold in the deep holes where springs evidently 
existed. 
I succeeded in picking out a very few fish daily, al- 
though, judging by the numbers that constantly came 
to the surface, leaping apparently in pursuit of small 
insects and spiders, I ought to have killed a good catch. 
The stomachs of those we captured were carefully ex- 
amined, but although I had expected to find them filled 
with insect food, they were empty, the yellow, bile-like 
fluid only being present. 
I have no theory to advance to account for these facts; 
that such a condition exists I have no doubt whatever, 
and I hope that future anglers who have a taste for 
scientific investigation will give the matter their atten- 
tion; perhaps by keeping careful thermometric and baro- 
metric records a reasonable deduction may be made, and 
we may know why and when "trout are off their feed," 
and consequently know when blank days are to occur. 
Concerning Flies. 
Yes, Steve Morse was right. "Trout are mighty no- 
tional critters," and notional in a great many ways. 
Among their whims and caprices is their treatment of the 
feathered lures which are cast to them. 
Who can say why a certain fly fails to tempt them 
on one day, and is on the next risen to with avidity. All 
of us have, time and again, changed our flies until at last 
the/right one was found. 
I suppose that the question, "Which fly do you con- 
sider to be the most killing one in all waters and in all 
conditions of water?" has been asked me scores of times. 
My reply has always been, "The silver-doctor." My range 
of experience has been rather wide, and there are few 
varieties of flies that. I have not at some time offered 
to the dainty beauties, and it is from that experience I 
have formed the opinion I have expressed. 
To what its attraction is attributable I do not know; 
it certainly does not resemble any insect that inhabits the 
waters or the air above them, but, used either as a sur- 
face fly or a sunken one, it is for an "all round fly" 
unrivalled. 
I have repeatedly used it with good success as a sunken 
flv in the very beginning of the season, as soon as the 
"ice went out," and when other anglers were contenting 
themselves with minnows and other bait. 
Of course, other flies proved moderately acceptable if 
they were kept well down in the water, notably a fly that 
my lamejited father used to tie, one with red and yellow 
chenille and mohair body, a red hackle and a pair of 
feathers from a wood duck's ruff for wings. 
This was a good fly for very early fishing, but as a red 
lure in the spring almost always attracts attention, it 
was possibly not much more killing than would be a good 
red-ibis fly. 
No, nothing compared with the silver-doctor in gen- 
eral effectiveness, and I have sometimes thought that if 
I were to be restricted in my book to two kinds of flies 
they would be the doctor in all sizes from that suitable 
for salmon fishing down to the smaller ones for the 
little six inch darlings, and to these I would add hackles 
of the different colors, such as black, white, red, gray 
and brown. 
Now, there are silver-doctors of various grades of 
quality, both of material and workmanship, but my ad- 
vice always is, "Get the best." Though they cost a little 
more they are cheaper in the end. Have natural feathers 
only in them, for dyed feathers soon lose their color and 
brilliancy, and nothing but the best silver winding of the 
body will retain its brightness. For its feathers nothing 
can compare with those from the crest of the golden 
pheasant; they always retain their sheen and springiness, 
no matter how long they may be used. 
Any Old Fly Sometimes Gets the Fish. 
Well, though you had a good supply and variety of the 
best flies and the best tackle, have you ever been, beaten 
by a twelve-year-old country lad? I have, and greatly 
to my chagrin. 
It came to pass in this way: I was fishing the great 
"Falls Pool," in the Maitland (N. $.) River, with very 
good success, rising and killing my fair share of good 
fish daily. 
One morning I saw out in the middle of the pool a 
large fish come to the surface, and as it turned with a 
big swirl, it displayed a tail certainly five inches in 
width. It was a noble fish for those waters, and of course 
I was anxious to capture it. 
Well, for two days I worked hard, but although he 
condescended to display his tail occasionally, he treated 
my flies with absolute indifference. I suppose, first and 
last, I tried fifty varieties and of all sizes, but in vain. 
The most expensive and beautiful salmon flies had no 
more attractiveness for him than the most plebian ap- 
pearing in my book; he absolutely declined to notice my 
efforts to please. 
On the morning of the third day he met his fate at the 
hands of the lad I have named, and by means of a fly 
that any half-way decent pickerel would regard with 
derision. It was simply, a bunch of scraggly feathers 
picked up in the barnyard and tied on a hook that was, 
I am ready to make affidavit, big enough for a cod. 
Well, this is only one of many experiences which go to 
show that trout are mighty notional. 
That to the element of uncertainty which constantly at- 
tends the angler's efforts with the fly is attributable in a 
great degree the fascination which the gentle art has 
for him is proven by the fact that when there is such an 
abundance that at every cast he may hook and land one 
or more fish, the sport soon palls on him. 
I believe that no sportsman lover of the rod will gain- 
say me in this, for all must know that a certain catch is 
not an attractive one. A trout battue is not to the 
angler's taste. 
A case in point: 
I once visited the trout ponds of a fishculturist and 
was permitted by the proprietor to cast the fly in a pool 
where great numbers of large trout were plainly to be 
seen. 
At the first cast dozens of fish sprung for it simul- 
taneously. I had but to hook a fish, play it until it was 
exhausted, and then the trout was killed. This was sim- 
ply butchery, and I laid the rod aside when the third 
fish was taken; it was not sport in even the most remote 
sense. Edward A. Samuels. 
The Story they Tell on Charlie* 
A good story is told of Charlie , a local angler. 
He is an enthusiastic bass fisherman, and although trying 
his luck on every available occasion had not, up to the 
time of this story, caught one this year. He was fairly 
successful last year, particularly in the fall, when the 
discovery was made generally public that the bass were 
being freely taken on the new Wilson spoon in the 
Raccoon Straits. 
Charlie was just aching for a bass, and told his wife that 
he wanted to go over with his fishing partner "Pop" on 
the following Saturday afternoon, but for some personal 
reason she demurred. Now, Charlie is an indulgent hus- 
band. He puts in most of the business hours at his 
office and all the week-day evenings at home, and has a 
mutual understanding with his wife that his Sundays 
should be devoted to his all absorbing sport, and she had 
never before raised the slightest objection, but on the 
contrary had encouraged him with nice lunches and kind 
words to go off and enjoy himself and get the benefit of. 
the fresh outdoor air, being better pleased if, upon re- 
turning with a good catch, he would clean them himself. 
Now, here she was, registering a very determined op- 
position; but the recent reports from these waters had 
been of so encouraging a nature that Charlie could not 
resist the opportunity of accompanying his friend; so, 
using all his wiles, and with sundry promises of what 
might be expected from him, he succeeded in gaining 
her reluctant consent, and taking the 1:35 boat they 
reached Tiburon in time for a good afternoon's fish, with 
a fair prospect of beating the boys who could not get 
over until Sunday morning. They started out in a dircet 
line for a four hours' troll to Angel Island. They made* 
a half dozen turns without success and then decided to 
pull over to California City on the opposite shore. 
While crossing, "Pop" had a strike in the deep water, 
and after considerable difficulty in a choppy sea landed 
an eleven pounder. This only served to raise Charlie's 
enthusiasm, "For now," says he,"we know they're here, 
and I guess the wife won't be disappointed this time." 
By the time they reached California City and had taken 
a few turns it was five o'clock, and to troll gently back, 
against a still rising tide, so that the spoon would have a 
chance to get in its deadly work, would occupy at least 
an hour. They headed their boat for Tiburon. and, sure 
enough, just as they rounded Shark Point, Charlie 
hooked a fish, and when brought to gaff it was found to 
weigh just nine pounds. 
It was about 6:30 when they landed, but Charlie was 
so elated and so anxious to communicate the tidings to 
his better half, that they walked up to the telegraph sta- 
tion and sent the following dispatch: 
"Sonoma House, Tiburon, 6:45 P. M. I've got one; 
weighs nine pounds; it's a beaut." 
They then went in to dinner, and a little later sat down 
to a game of "draw" with a few of the later arrivals who 
had come over to get an early morning start. The game 
had progressed harmoniously, almost hilariously, in view 
of the afternoon's luck, for about an hour, when a mes- 
senger appeared and handed an envelope to Joe, the bar- 
keeper, who in turn walked over and gave it to Charlie, 
who opened it and turned a little white around the gills. 
"Boys," said he, "I must go to town at once." "Pop" 
looked at his watch and said: "You can't do it, the last 
boat's gone." "Can't help it," says Charlie, "I must 
reach town to-night if I have to charter a tug." "What's 
up?" cried the crowd in chorus; at which Charlie threw 
down the telegram, which read as follows: "I've, got one 
also; beats yours by a pound; can't say he is a beauty, 
exactly, but he is very like you." 
James A. Parxser. 
Alameda, Cal* 
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