366 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Oct aft xgot 
Lake Temiskaming*. 
Lake Temiskaming, Quebec, Canada, Oct 20.— Editor 
Forest and Stream: As many of your readers have 
visited the Temiskaming district in search of big game, 
an account of a hunt on October 17 may interest them. 
Two guides who were engaged to go with a New York 
gentleman next day, were here waiting for him to put in 
an appearance. In the morning I told them they had bet- 
ter go out and try and get some partridge or deer. They 
left the hotel at 8 130 and in the evening, about 7 -.30, 
arrived with a moose head, the horns having a spread of 
52 inches, and one of the prettiest ones I have ever seen 
in this northern district. When returning, within a quar- 
ter of a mile of the house, they killed a very large brown- 
nosed black bear weighing 300 pounds. How is this for 
one day's hunt in the virgin wilds of Canada? Many of 
your readers know the guides, Francis Antoine and 
Bernard Jawbone. 
The shooting of the bear was rather funny. Francis 
was ahead with the moose head on his shoulders. Just 
as they came out of the bush near the graveyard of a 
small church near the C. P. R. Railway track, they espied 
the bear. Bruin evidently thought he had met a moose, 
for he stopped. Francois halted and gently swayed the 
moose < head to attract his attention, and Bernard with a 
■35 Winchester bowled him over. When they reached the 
house, I asked Bernard where they got the bear. He said, 
"In the graveyard. I guess that bear was coming from 
church," and a quiet smile played about his stoic face. 
W. H. Leavitt. 
Good Shooting: in New York City* 
The New York Herald of October 15 relates that a 
tract of land of eight hundred acres, which is in reality 
a game preserve, exists right in New York city That this 
is true, Captain Burfiend and the police of the West Ches- 
ter precinct found out a few days ago, when a request was 
made at the little station house in Main street for protec- 
tion from the hunters who are just now beginning to 
trouble the custodian of the place. 
On both sides of Westchester Creek and on the shores 
of Pelham Bay, not far from the Bartow station on the 
suburban branch of the New York, New Haven and Hart- 
ford Railroad, is what is known as part of the Coutant 
estate, which consists of about one thousand acres. One 
lone house, that of John Campbell, the custodian of the 
place, is within a stone's throw of the little station. Fish- 
ing is good, and hunting also, as ducks, snipe and other 
game abound. Campbell was busy last week warning 
hunters that no trespassing would be tolerated. The 
sportsmen usually take Campbell as a joke, and so he ap- 
pealed to the police of the West Chester station for assist- 
ance. Perhaps the most surprised man was Captain Bur- 
fiend, for he never dreamed of the possibility of being 
asked to help police a private estate of nearly one thous- 
and acres within the confines of the city. He explained 
that he could not properly protect the place, as he had not 
men enough. Campbell then said that he would have to 
use methods of his own, and added that he had several 
good guns in his house, and in adidtion would obtain a 
number of dogs. 
The Limit of Game Bag's. 
Southport, Conn., Oct. 24.— Editor Forest and Stream: 
In your issue of October 1, More Anon, in telling of the 
abundance of water fowl and shore birds in the Currituck 
region, states that on three days of a certain week in Sep- 
tember he shot respectively 135, 122, and 70 yellowlegs. 
It is gratifying to know that there are still some places 
on the Atlantic Coast where the shore birds may be found 
in considerable numbers. But is it not high time for 
sportsmen to set themselves a limit whether the law re- 
quires it or not? Is not a daily average of 109 birds far 
too great? I would like to ask More Anon if, in his 
opinion, that first day's sport would have been a failure 
had he stopped at 35 and allowed the remaining 100 to 
go on their way? I would gladly be convinced that the 
supply of these birds is sufficiently inexhaustible to with- 
stand such inroads. Have these or any of the shore birds 
held their own during the past twenty years ? I think not. 
M. S. Lacey. 
A Woman in Waders* 
Now that "the high tide of the year" is past, and the 
season of the log fire has opened, I have been thinking 
of the pleasure of the departed summer as I gaze into the 
glowing embers. We all know that there is nothing com- 
parable to the influence of a log fire. Nothing shuts out 
the material world more effectually than the glow and 
warmth and beauty of the blazing logs. It is then that 
the imagination assumes control. We picture in the 
dancing flames the realization of our hopes. The future 
is unrolled before us, and we shape events according to 
our desires. While the- spell is upon us we not only map 
out our lives, we seem actually to live the part. But 
aside from our flight of fancy toward the future, the 
flames as they change in form and color turn our thoughts 
backward, and we live again the red letter days of the 
past. 
There are two experiences of the summer just departed 
which I love to dwell upon ; and it is under the influence 
of the cheer and warmth of the logs as they burn and 
crackle these cool October evenings that I seem to expe- 
rience again those seasons of pleasure and delight. 
Yes, unquestionably those days of May and July hold 
two experiences never to be forgotten, and I fervently 
hope, very many times repeated. What was it they held? 
Why fishing experiences, of course. 
It seems odd, now that I think of it, that as a daughter 
of a disciple of Izaak Walton, I should have lived a score 
and a half of years without ever casting fly on a trout 
stream. 
This suggests the oft-discussed question, "Are anglers 
born or made?" The venerable Izaak tells us that "as no 
man is born an artist, so no man is born an angler." But 
again in his "Compleat Angler," we read that "angling 
is somewhat like Poetry, men are to be born so." When 
the father of angling is thus contradictory, what are we 
to believe. And yet, after all, why bother with the 
question. If we are "born so" the consciousness of the 
gift will make itself known, and we will enter the com- 
pany of anglers with the realizing sense that we are where 
we belong. If we are not "born so," a few tests on the 
stream with rod and line will settle the matter. And the 
question will not be decided by the number of the -catch, 
either. 
At the end of my first day the bottom of my creel was 
covered only with the moss that was to have made a bed 
for the trout. Was I discouraged? No. That first day's 
experience led me to believe that I was born an angler, 
for although I had no trout, there was something in my 
heart that seemed a precious possession. I had found a 
recreation which was satisfying, which was delightful, 
which had no blemish or drawback. Yes, I believe that 
I was "born so." 
This first experience came to me last May. During the 
previous winter a very frequent and delightful guest at 
our home spent many evenings with my father in his 
library before the fire telling "fish stories." Unlike most 
fish stories, his were all true, and always fascinating, and 
I found myself becoming extremely interested in the sub- 
ject of angling as represented by these two lovers of the 
art. I presume it was my questioning, and my evident 
enthusiasm of the subject that led them to arrange an 
early trouting trip, our friend planning to take his wife, 
and my father to take me. 
Those days of preparation are all pleasant to look back 
upon. Mrs. B. and myself became initiated into the techni- 
calities of the gentle art. Fishing before had suggested 
a fishing-pole; now we spoke of our rods. We decided 
speedily that our interest was centered in the fly-book 
rather than in the bait-box, especially when our imagina- 
tion filled the latter with various creeping things; 
In a recent article by Mr. Fowler in Forest and 
Stream, we have seen set forth the differences between a 
fly-fisherman and a bait-fisherman or a "plugger." I shall 
say nothing against the latter now, except that I hope no 
woman is in their ranks or will join them. 
Fancy trying to observe and practice one of the rules 
for adjusting a frog according to Izaak Walton: "Thus 
use your frog : put your hook-— I mean the arming wire- 
through his mouth and out at his gills, and then with a 
fine needle and silk sew the upper part of his leg with 
©sly om stitch to the arming of your hook, or tie-tta 
frog's leg above the upper joint to the armed wire; and 
in so doing use him as though you loved him." Verily 
frogs, worms, grasshoppers, helgramites, and all the long 
list of live bait, are not for the use of the angler's wife 
or daughter. 
And yet the question may well be asked, if a woman 
shrinks from using live bait, how can she experience 
pleasure in catching a living thing on a cruel hook? My 
answer is framed from what my father and his friend 
have told me. They assured me from the beginning that 
fishes are cold-blooded, and that the hook does not hurt 
them. I hope I have not been misinformed. But the 
argument in the matter which would warrant an in- 
dulgence of the art, is the fact that fishes were intended 
as food for man. 
It is only fair to acknowledge that from the first con- 
templations I entertained of becoming an angler, one of 
the most attractive thoughts was the charm I knew 1 
should find in the country of the trout stream. I did, in- 
deed, anticipate the pleasure of the motion and spring of 
the graceful rod, but little did I realize the sensations that 
the actual manipulations would produce. And when the 
first trout rose ! But there, I am going too fast, for I 
want to say a word regarding our preparations for the 
trip to Sullivan county, where we were to fish the 
Willowemcc. 
One of the most interesting purchases in making ready 
for the trip was that of the waders. The gentlemen, of 
course, as old sportsmen, possessed everything that a 
devotee of angling could desire, including many devices 
in the way of tackle that would startle the gentle Izaak 
were he to appear among us. At last the preparations 
were complete, and the time of our departure near at 
hand. A dress rehearsal in our shiny waders, with cloth 
skirts not very much below the knee, matching in color 
our blue and green velvet shirt-waists, called forth pleas- 
ant compliments from our instructors, and we were glad 
that the angling habit was not unbecoming. 
We reached the little station of Livingston Manor at 
twilight with no evidences of spring in sight or sound, 
though we had left the robins and the early blossoms in 
Jersey. A drive of six miles brought us to the Hearth- 
stone Inn at De Bruce, and a blazing fire and hot supper 
were welcome, indeed. We all went to bed in good 
season that we might be ready for the wonderful event of 
the next day. Early we marched into the breakfast room 
with waders on, having left our rods, nets, creels, etc., in 
the hall, where we could speedily grasp them as we made 
a rush to be off. I was as excited as is a child to see its 
first Christmas tree. Why, I was really nervous, and 
could scarcely take time enough even to eat some mush 
and milk. I left my companions with their steak and 
hurried out of doors. At once the sound of the stream 
reached my ears — the stream in which I was to wade. 
Think of it ! The stream where lived the speckled trout — 
the stream that I had been hearing of all winter! 
Yes, the bell had rung, the curtain risen, and the test 
was about to begin. Were Mrs. B. and I "born so" or 
were we "to be made ?" 
I refrain from recording the incidents of that first 
day, the principal reason being that they are too numerous. 
But let me add that it was a day of great delight. There 
were no mishaps, no accidents, and no trout ; that is, none 
for me. My friend Mrs. B. hooked and landed two beau- 
ties with the grace and art of a professional, thus doing 
credit to her able instructor. It was a Cahill that did it, 
I think. My coachman, I presume, is still decorating a 
stately hemlock; but I noticed that a professor was tight 
and fast in a limb just above where my fly caught, and a 
few yards ahead I observed Mr. B. adjusting a new fly. 
The novice didn't feel so badly after that. 
Mrs. B. and I waited with suppressed interest the ver- 
dict of our instructors upon our qualifications to enter the 
ranks of the anglers after that first day with the rod and 
line. Were we to be or not to be admitted ? The big 
fire-place of the inn was crammed with logs, and we re- 
laxed our tired bodies that first evening before its genial 
warmth. No one spoke. Finally the stillness was broken 
by Mr. B., who simply said, emphatically, "Born so." 
Father echoed, "Born so." We had passed. 
It is hard to put on paper the sensations that came to 
me those three days a-stream ; but it is not hard to call 
them back as I gaze in the glowing embers of the fire, 
How much richer the memory is for having had those ex- 
periences; I may almost say, how much richer the life! 
It is as dear old Izaak Walton has said, that "angling 
is an employment for idle time, which not idly spent, is 
after study a rest to the mind, a cheerer of the spirits, a 
diverter of sadness, a calmer of unquiet thoughts, a 
moderator of passions, a procurer of contentedness, and it 
begets habits of peace and patience in those that profess 
and practice it." True, indeed, is every word, as all those 
who have tried it will agree. 
We returned to the city, each "with a rich possession. 
I do not mean the trout, though we felt a glowing pride 
in the beauties we brought to those at home. I refer 
especially to the tranquil minds, the restored vigor of the 
body, the experiences we shared as companions in the 
stream, and at the noon-day luncheon on the bank. The 
purity of the water, of which we almost seemed a part as 
we walked its rocky bed ; the tonic of the air as it came 
to us from the hills and across the meadows ; the song of 
the birds as they called to one another in the love notes of 
the spring; the tender coloring of the new growth of the 
year; all these influences we carried away with us — the 
influences which are the mainspring of a pure and simple 
life. 
My second angling trip included, as the first, many 
months of anticipation and also of preparation. Again 
the principal subject was that of the waders. This time 
we were going to Michigan to camp as well as to fish. 
The question was, were our waders going to be high 
enough for the water of the Manistee River. It was 
finally decided that they would do, and the boat would be 
near us if we got in deep water. I confess that both Mrs. 
B. and myself felt a little uncertain as to the wading we 
would be able to do, for we noticed that the men bought 
what looked like a diver's uniform. The whole body was 
covered up to the arm-pits, and we wondered what we 
should do, rubbered only above the knee, and with short 
skirts. The first day in camp decided it. 
I left my tent at six with my waders on and short skirt. 
The men appeared clad nearly all in rubber. Our camp 
was pitched on the bank of the river, and it was but a step 
from the tent to the water. I made that step with direct 
intent. I got only about three feet from shore when I 
found I was getting in too deep. I searched for a shallow 
entrance all along the line, but the bank and I were still 
too close. Then came the question, how could I angle 
when I couldn't wade? I was sick at heart as I remem- 
bered that a drive of thirty miles and a three-hour rail- 
road journey separated me from what seemed essential to 
my happiness— a pair of high waders. 
_ All this time the men were several bends below in the 
river catching the trout for breakfast. Upon their return, 
their solicitous inquiries as to what had happened to up- 
set my peace of mind so early in the game— we had made 
camp the night before at six— were called forth by my 
long, and I fear sad, face. My story was scarcely told 
ere one of the party dashed into a tent and out again with 
a pair of extra waders. Then some one else dashed into a 
tent and out again, and I felt as if I were peeking over 
a high board fence. They were a loose fit, to be sure, but 
I didn't care about that, or that the size was No. 10. All 
I thought about was getting in that river and casting a 
Reub-Wood for those speckled beauties. 
My breakfast was about as exciting as the one at 
Hearthstone Inn before my first entrance in a trout 
stream, only then I was concerned both with the waders 
and the casting, and now I felt that my whole attention 
must be given toward keeping upright in those gigantic 
leggings, which made me walk very like a performing 
bear. 
That first day is too painful to recall, but I kept in the 
river until supper time, and then all night I walked the 
shifting bottom of that river, done up to my neck in 
rubber. 
Well, the second day I fished, and the third day I 
fished— yes, and caught some beauties, too — and every day 
of the two weeks in camp, except Sundays, I fished and 
wore the waders. 
What about Mrs. B. ? Well, she thought she would stay 
in the boat, as Mr. B. felt that her .110 pounds (she weighs 
50 pounds less than I do) was safer there. The other 
ladies of the party didn't venture into the high-tco boots 
but once, so I was, the undisputed wearer of the extra pair 
