48^ 
Reminiscences of an Octogenarian. 
Part n. 
L I ' ' BY THE OLD ANGLER. 
(.CsHtinued /rem fiage 482 J 
But, to return from this long digression, let the writer 
relate the incident Avhich will always connect itself with 
his memories of Dee Side Farm and the Restigouche. On 
arnvmg at the log camp which, with the squatter's cabin 
near by, were the only signs of civilization then existing 
on the upper waters of the river, he saw a bell tent and 
an upturned canoe on the shore, and an Indian cooking 
a savory-smelling meal. A tall, elderly gentleman, seated 
m a camp chair, was playing a flute, while waiting for 
the meal to be se^^■ed. Mowat introduced him as a mem- 
ber of the club who had his own notions about sport, and 
sought it in his own way, as far from the club house as 
he could get. By Mowat's advice he had been camped 
here for several days, but he intended going some dis- 
tance up Patapedia before he left the river. The writer 
had, some fifteen years previously, fished the Southwest 
Miramichi with this gentleman's cousin, whose report of 
NcM' Brunswick as a field for sport had induced him to 
become a member of the Restigouche Club. He invited 
us to join him at table, where, for the first time, the Old 
Angler tasted "head rice" cooked as it is only in the 
Southern States. 
Many old anglers will remember Wm. Neill Habersham, 
of Savannah, Ga. When we first met he must have been 
approaching his sixtieth year. Tall, straight, thin, but 
SNiry, he was then active and vigorous, and on occasion 
could handle a paddle well. With strangers, he was dis- 
tant but courteous; a fine type of the Southern gentle- 
man befo' de wah. With his associates he was an intelli- 
gent, %vell-read, affable and genial bon camarade. All his 
prejudices and sj'mpathies were Southern, and as he had 
lost two sons in the Civil War, his feelings toward the 
North were no doiibt embittered ; but he seldom gave 
them expression. His greatest hobby was music; he was 
an enthusiastic admirer of Wagner's compositions, which 
were at that time coming more and more in favor with 
the_ musical world. He played several instruments, of 
which his favorite was the violin ; but only a very 
elaborate and highly finished flute accompanied him to 
the woods and streams. His cigars were a revelation. 
He evinced much enjoyment of a bottle of French brandy, 
one of the only two in the writer's gripsack, which the 
well-known importer of that day, Thomas Furlong, had 
lately received from Marseilles, where he had selected it 
himself on his preceding visit t<j the vineyards of France. 
Hundreds of readers of Forest and Stream who have 
enjoyed the pure wines, brandies and Avhiskies in the old 
days dispensed at Furlong's wine cellars, will be pleased 
to read that he is still hale and hearty, enjoj'^ing his ad- 
vancing years among his books and pictures, among 
which last are fine reproductions of those great originals, 
"The Rise," "The Leap" and "The Last Struggle" of 
America's foremost painter, in whose studio, when at 41 
Tremont street, Boston, the writer has spent many happy 
hours discussing rods, lines, reels and flies ; for beside be- 
ing a great artist with his brush, he has few equals with 
rod and line. 
At Mowat's request Mr. Habersham played several 
pieces on his flute, which were Sanscrit and Greek to us 
both, but which he assured us were typical of the music 
ol the future, but at that time was appreciated only by 
thi. best cultivated ears. As it was quite beyond our 
appreciation, Mowat asked him to play some familiar 
tune, the music of which was within our mental grasp, 
and suggested "Yankee Doodle" or the "Star-Spangled 
Banner/' Imagine, if you can, a Southern gentleman of 
the ancien regime voluntarily playing the Northern hymn 
of triumph! I can see now the expression of pain and 
disgust that distorted the features of our kindly host, as 
he seemed about to speak; but rising, retreated to his 
tent and we saw him no more until next day. 
Whether it was that the classical music which neither 
of us could appreciate, reminded Mowat of something he 
could grasp, or that he was annoyed at himself for hav- 
ing aroused painful memories in our friend, he began 
humming so hilarious a lilt in French that I wished to 
hear both tune and words. The two half-breeds caught 
the familiar notes and at once joined in the exciting 
diablerie, and for the first time the writer heard the old 
French chanson, "En roulant ma boule," The words of 
the song have no connection with the chorus; they con- 
sist of some twelve distichs, which tell in a rambling 
manner of a prince going hunting and shooting a snow- 
white drake, whose death is described and whose feathers 
eventually form a soldier's bed. They seem a mere frame 
on which to hang th rollicking chorus which sets French- 
men frantic with joyous excitement. I have now before 
me the notebook in which are the words of the first verse 
and the much-repeated chorus, which are as follows : 
"Dcrrier chez nam, ya-t-un ^tang, 
En roulant ma boule, 
Trois beaux canards s'en vont baignant 
En roulant ma boule, 
RoH roulant, ma boule roulant, 
%n roulant ma boule roulant, 
Roll roulant ma boule." 
The writer has often since Tieard it-^sung, but never 
more hilariously than in the Canadian House of Com- 
mons, where it is one of the many modes of obstruction 
when killing time is the object. Whoever has seen the 
boyish delight with which grave and reverend seigneurs 
join in this ridiculous lilt will not wonder that it is so 
popular with all Canadians — old and voung, high and 
low. Wherever a dozen French-Canadians are assem- 
bled, no matter M'hat the occasion, some one is sure to 
start En roulant before they part. There seems to be 
something uncanny in the very sound of the words, as 
there is in that now forgotten song which used to set 
Irishmen crazv with excitement, the chorus of which is 
just as senseless: 
"Lero, lero, Jilliburfcro,. , - i 
^ ^llJbwUro, buiie^i » te,"* ^ -s^ ^ 
ItOtmST AND STREAM. 
Bishop Burnet tells us ; "the army and the people, both 
in city and countiy, were singing it perpetually, and per- 
haps never had so slight a thing so great an eifect." But 
probably the good Bishop never heard "roli roulant ma 
boule" sung by Frenchmen. 
Mr. Habersham was an artist with rod and line. His 
fly-book was a sight to gladden the heart of an angler. 
He had all the standard flies tied to his order in London 
on double hooks of very small size; and his casts and 
leaders were of the best gut that money could buy. With 
these, a split bamboo rod in three pieces, two spare mid- 
dle joints and three extra tips, with eighty-five yards of 
American plaited waterproofed line on a plain reel, he 
would take a salmon where the general angler would 
swear by Father Izaak no salmon would lie. The bright- 
est sun did not deter him ; he would often raise and hook 
his fi.sh in the full glare of midday. Of this he was 
very proud, and entered in his notebook all the incidents 
of each A^ictory. He had wonderful patience. I think he 
exasperated the fish until they rose to take vengeance on 
the persistent little insect that challenged them to the 
chase. Day after day he would return to camp, from up 
or down the river, seldom without a fine fish. Sometimes 
two, and on one memorable occasion, no fewer than four 
rewarded his patience and skill, and the good old gentle- 
man was more pleased than a child with a new toy. Few 
anglers, I venture to say, better enjoyed the sport or 
found more unadulterated pleasure in its pursuit, than 
the quiet Southern gentleman who, until his death some 
years ago, annually fished Indian House and Patapedia. 
Fine angler as he was, he had one very bad habit, ac- 
quired in catching catfish in Southern rivers, in which, I 
fear, he persisted to the end. He would, when excited, 
recover line by drawing it through the rings by hand, 
allowing the slack to form confused coils at his feet. He 
knew perfectly how unscientific it was, and how it really 
increased the chances of losing his fish, by himself losing 
control of the arch of his rod, which control, with proper 
management, lies at the foundation of salmon angling as 
an art. Casting a long line is a matter of mere practice 
with a good rod, and is, after all, a matter of 'no great 
importance, except under ixnusual circumstances. Making 
flies fall lightly on the water is a useless, fanciful accom- 
plishment, not worth the trouble of acquiring. Every 
angler of much experience will recall how, nine times out 
of ten, he has raised his trout or salmon on the clumsiest 
casts, which he thought disgraceful, but about which the 
fish evidently held a different opinion. He will also re- 
call with a smile how often he has missed hooking his 
quarp', because he was more intent about the manner 
of his cast than about his object. , Once in a while the 
ability to cast a long line will reward the artist with a 
rise he would not get with a short cast. But every angler 
who has had experience with Salmo salar, Ouananiche or 
Fontinalis, will remember how much more his success in 
raising them depended on the day, the wind, the state of 
the water, but above all, the humor of the fish, than upon 
his own skill. How often has the Old Angler seen the 
small boy with his wattle and ten yards of twine, splash 
out his bait and "strong in" his two-pound trout, while 
the said angler, with his split bamboo, his silver-plated 
"multiplier" or "automatic action" governed by the little 
finger, his hundred-dollar fly-book with spoons on swivels 
and carefully imitated grasshoppers, beetles and young 
mice, has left the lake with a heavy heart and a light 
basket ! 
The last day of our stay at Indian House had come. I 
was anxious to take home a fresh salmon, so after break- 
fast repaired to the head of the pool, Mr. H. kindly 
going to the mouth of Patapedia, leaving the whole pool 
to my single rod. This rod, by the way, was a good 
specimen of the almost forgotten "Castle Connell." It 
was fifteen feet long, the butt of Irish ash, the second 
joint of lancewood with greenhart tip, so_ cunningly pro- 
portioned and graduated that, while the tip was sensitive 
as a nerve, it was strong enough to act in concert with 
the lancewood and ash. These two pieces were joined by 
splicing a long scarf with waxed thread, which left the 
wood at its strongest, and the play of the arch free from 
the irregularities caused by ferrules, no matter how deftly 
these are fitted. A plain reel with eigthy yards of line 
set into the butt about eighteen inches from the "spear" 
completed the plainest, the cheapest and the best rod I 
ever handled. I admire, as every angler must, the beau- 
tiful split bamboo, with its fine fittings, and there is no 
denying its excellent qualities when a heavy fish is on 
the hook. But I must say that I never yet played a 
heavy salmon on one that I did not wish for my old 
shabbj^-looking "Castle Connell," sent me by an angling 
friend who had often tested its virtues with the heavy 
fish of famous Blackwater in Ireland. In passing, let me 
say that a friend sent me lately a clipping from the Chi- 
cago Field, in which was described, at some length, as 
the recent invention of a Western angler, the spear, which 
was common on salmon and trout rods made in England 
more than a century ago. The bags in which these were 
packed for sale always had a pocket to hold the spear, 
which screwed into the brass cap on the butt. How 
strange it seems that such simplicity can yet exist among 
American anglers! But that the editor of a paper de- 
voted to fishing and shooting should print such a para- 
graph, is passing strange indeed. 
But to return from this digression into which modern 
rods and modern inventions all unknown to Dame Ber- 
ners and Father Izaak have tempted the Old Angler. The 
river was high for the season and quite a ripple ran over 
the shallows at the head of the pool. Beginning well up, 
I commenced careful fishing, casting the fly fairly for 
half an hour without a rise. I then reluctantly resorted 
to the style of fishing which is always more or less suc- 
cessful at Indian House— allowing the fly to sink and 
playing it as a bait. In the course of an hour's fishmg— 
not angling— I had hooked and lost two fish, simply be- 
cause i had not, at that time, quite overcome the impulse 
to strike when a fish took the submerged fly. The third 
one hooked itself while I was carelessly talking to Mowat 
over mv shoulder, as he sat in the stern and managed 
the canoe. This fish gave good sport and took off most 
of the eighty yards on the reel, which compelled following 
in the canoe to the lower end of the pool before his rush 
could be checked. He never showed him=:elf nor broke 
water from the time he was hooked until Mowat had 
the gaff in his side. But for strength and dogged fight, 
without much activity, he was equal to the best of his 
confreres, Commencing again at th^ heaa m the pool, 
IDec 13, 190a. 
another hour's fishing drew a blank, and as dinner time 
was^^approachiiig, I was about willing to "let it go at 
that" ; but the camp was some distance below the pool, 
and Mowat urged me to put on a Jock-Scott — the only 
one I had left — and fish down to camp. Noticing the 
leader was somewhat chafed, I replaced it by a new one, 
and with my last Jock commenced careful casting, as 
this fly will bring them to surface if any will. A little 
below the head of the pool at that time was a large rock 
or boulder, which has since been carried by ice nearly to 
the foot. Mowat approached this rock with care from 
the shore side, for he knew that there lay about the last 
chance we had for another fish at Indian House. Care- 
fully casting toward the rock, I soon had a splendid rise, 
the swirl of which indicated a large fish. Had I not then 
acted instinctively and made that indescribable turn of 
the wrist which every angler knows perhaps as well as 
the writer, I should have lost the biggest fish I ever 
hooked and captured in a long fishing experience, which 
covers sixty-five years oii river, lake and stream, to say 
nothing of missing the strangest complication into which 
a leader ever got since Dame Julyana Berners and Father 
Izaak Walton commenced "fisshinge with an angle." The 
first rush took off sixty yards of line, and at the end of 
it a splendid leap showed the dimensions of what looked 
about twice the size of any salmon I had ever seen. This 
made me more anxious to secure him, and this very 
anxiety caused a nervousness that I know augured very 
badly for success. Remembering he was at the end of a 
new and unworn leader, and knowing the strength of 
both line and rod, I soon felt confidence and coolness re- 
turn. After leaping he turned and rushed toward the 
canoe at ci rate quite beyond the capacity of the reel to re- 
cover line. Had I known that in the prolific womb of the 
future lay hidden an automatic self-acting reel that could 
be manipulated with the little finger, I am sure I should 
have prayed for one, but in the absence of knowledge of 
any better reel than my own — which I am sure a multi- 
plier is not — I did "all I knew how," and really I do not 
know what that was at the time. All I do know is that 
I soon felt the sway of the fish on the perfect arch of 
ihe rod, which I could vary by raising or lowering the 
butt, according to the strain on the line. When near the 
canoe he again turned and made a downward rush ; but 
never again did I get sight of him until he came, motion- 
less and almost lifeless, to the shore on which I had 
landed. His rush was not far, checked as it was by 
as quick an arch as I dared use. On trying to reel in, the 
feel of the thing told me the fish was hooked foul, and 
again nervousness almost lost the prize. The writer's ex- 
perience has been that four out of every five fish hooked 
foul escape, in spite of the utmost care and skill ; the 
hook almost always enlarges the hole and works out. 
Knowing this from long experience, I also knew that the 
sooner he was brought to gaff the better. There were 
risks all round. The longer he was in the water the more 
my chances decreased; the more strain put on him to 
bring him in the more his chances increased, and I fully 
realized the force of the common expression, "between 
the devil and the deep sea," which fits with great aptness 
every tight place. However, I recalled a solid chunk of 
wisdom handed down from antiquity — most likely from 
Socrates when he lost a big fish in the Piraeus — to the 
effect that while man cannot command success, he can do 
better — he can deserve it; so I set about deserving suc- 
cess by doing all I could in putting what skill I could 
against the wonderful strength that fish displayed. I 
concluded to take all the risks involved in attempting a 
speedy capture, in preference to those a longer fight en- 
tailed. Acting on this decision, I put on all the strain 
that rod and line would bear, and it was real sport to see 
the arch of that rod change as the erratic movements of 
the fish rendered necessary, knowing that every change 
had its peculiar risks. Could an angler only know where 
a fish is hooked and how strong the hold is, he would 
know just how to handle him. But in utter ignorance of 
this and with the scantiest data on which to form an 
opinion, he is always acting in the dark. Perhaps what 
he thinks most artistic work is the worst possible for 
his chances and the best possible for the captive.^ It is 
this uncertainty which gives to angling the peculiar ex- 
citement that, so far as the writer knows, no other sport 
affords. 
Despite all the strain I dared exert, that fish bored his 
way wherever his erratic fancies led him. _ His rushes 
were short and sluggish, and each successive one con- 
vinced me that his movement rather than his strength was 
interfered with. I had, in my time, struck and played, 
lost and secured, many foul-hooked fish, and had a good 
general knowledge of their action; but this fellow 
"knocked higher'n a kite" all my knowledge, skill and 
experience. He was not only the strongest I had ever 
felt, but his peculiar action puzzled me exceedingly, and 
curiositv to know how he was hooked added to my other 
sources'of excitement ; but I was literally helpless. All I 
could do Avas to give him a wide arch to waste his 
strength on. Several times Mowat suggested that he ^ 
should set me on shore, but I knew that mv best chance 
was with the fish in deep water. Beside, I could not, wjtn 
any prudent strain, get him out of that deep water had I 
wished it. For more than an hour I could only oppose 
the arch of the rod against the sullen strength of the 
captive. To the surprise of both Mowat and myself he 
had, for a long time, ceased to rush. He kept m the 
deepest water and simply moved straight ahead with such 
strength that, when I feared the leader must part, I was 
forced to give him line to ease the strain. I pointed out 
his peculiar action to Mr. H., who had now returned, and 
ventured the opinion that he was hooked very near the 
tail, which prevented its free use. In this opinion Mowat 
agreed and had the fish been lost, we should both have 
felt satisfied that the hold, very near the tail, had given 
out from the long-continued strain. After having spent 
two long hours in efforts to save the fish, and feeling 
fatigued and much cramped from long standing m the 
canoe, I was forced to land and stretch my weaned legs. 
Here, I fear, I grew reckless, for Mowat more than once 
cautioned me that the strain on the tackle was beyond 
prudence: but slowlv I began to recover line, every inch 
by sheer 'force on the reel. Forty yards were out, of 
which I had not recovered a yard that I was not forced 
to relinquish later to save leader or rod. To hiy intense 
satisfaction, he came slowly in, as the reel took up turn 
after turn of the line. Evidently the captive was tired 
put, •for his strength faiN fest, ^nd he came in yim 
