FOREST AND STREAM. 
iS 
The Log of a Sea Angler, 
JY CHARLES F. HOLDER, AUTHOR OF "ANGLING," "biG GAME 
FISHES," ETC. 
I.— The Bending Rod— Taking Bait— Diving for Queen 
Conchs— An Assortment of Game— A Rare Fish, 
All these islands are the summits of submerged plateaus 
>f coral sand reaching out from the key in all direc- 
tions, a shoal of white, here and there covered with 
jranch coral or mass gradually deepening, then rising 
igain to a fringing ridge of coral that formed a sort of 
)arrier to the deep water of the channel. Now and then, 
lere and there, the channel would break into the lagoon 
3r shoal, its sides protected by a cheveaux de frise of 
ioral spikes. The edge of these channels was an excel- 
ent fishing ground, while the shallow flat was not to be 
scorned, and to this vantage ground we started in the 
*cmmodious dinghy the second after our arrival. 
' The fishing was begun by taking bait. We poled 
round the big coral heads, and T counted a number that 
were eight feet across and four feet high. Many of these 
aid ones were eaten out in the center by some boring 
pv-orm, and afforded a shelter for countless fishes. The 
:rayfish, about as large as an ordinary lobster, and very 
iimilar in shape, with whips long and serrated and no 
arge claws, lived under the edge of these heads with 
their vulnerable tails tucked in out of sight, but their 
ong whips protruding about their eyes in a most telltale 
"ashion. It was an easy matter to lower the two-pronged 
ipear or grains, and strike them in the head, then jerk 
them from the hole, and in half an hour I had picked out 
;wenty. This is the bait of all others on the reef; few 
if any fishes will refuse it, and the majority fight for it. 
It was interesting to see Chief "fix" a crawfish. He 
vore behind his back a large dirk in a leather scabbard, 
md with one blow of this he decapitated the crayfish and 
;ossed its head in a barrel for chum, then deftly holding 
;he tail sidewise, he struck it with the back of the blade, 
ipHtting it across the back, after which he skinned it and 
jut the delicate red meat into four or five baits, depend- 
ng upon the size of the fish. By the time I had grained 
crayfish, he had the last one cut up and laid on a board. 
We anchored on the edge of a deep channel near some 
large coral heads in the center of as charming a sub- 
marine garden as can be imagined, one that graded 
rapidly off into deep water, where were suggestions of 
arge and unknown game. Is^ear at hand the bottom was 
covered with beautiful leaf coral, broad and palmated 
branches of olive hue piling one upon the other, rearing 
tipward like the antlers of a moose. Near-by the giant 
head of another coral, and between them and all about, 
plumes and fans of great beautj^, waving in the mys- 
terious tidal currents of this tropical sea. I was peering 
through -a glass box at this wonderful garden of the sea 
and had forgotten to fish until reminded by John that the 
bait was ready. What was the game? Ye gods and 
Bshes ! what a host these men held forth. 
"There's hogfish, grunts, cobia, rabirubia, snappers, 
porgies, groupers, tarpon, sharks, spadefish, barracuda, 
jacks — anything you like, sah," grinned Chief, as John 
got the killick ready and Bob held the oars. 
"Drop it right in this garden," I said. "We'll see what 
birds of the sea I can catch." So down it sank in about 
fifteen feet of water over the splendid plumes that flashed 
a hundred tints in this torquoise sea. 
I had a rod of greenheart that weighed about ten 
ounces, one bulk for eight or ten-pounders, and equipped 
with a reel whose notes many a singer might have 
envied, so silvery were they; indeed, I have seen that 
reel stir men's souls far beyond the power of a mere 
human voice. The line was a spider web-like device of 
oiled silk. The only incongruous feature was the hook. 
It was not to the manor born; not fine and delicate as 
the rest of the tackle, nor was it large, merely a small 
O'Shaughnessy, a number which means a small_ hook 
with a stout shank. On this I wound a filament of cross 
section of the crayfish, the red or scarlet under skin 
holding it on. This I cast into the azure waters of the 
garden and watched it sink while my solemn giants m 
red sat and doubtless wondered what in the name of all 
the gods was coming next. Here I would claim a vast 
nd unknown desert region separating angling from mere 
ishing. The fisherman casts his line with intent to mur- 
der the game, and the chances are that he wall use s. 
sinker to make sure that his lure reaches the home of his 
victim. The angler rather hopes his fish will have the 
advantage, or else why this delicate tackle? The fisher- 
man is possessed of a desire to coin gain from his catch, 
while the angler merely wishes to try his skill against 
Uiat of the game ; hence he seeks the hardest fighter, the 
gamiest fish. , . , . , , . , 
I fain would be an "angler" on, this bright day m these 
gardens of the sea, and when I asked my three men not 
to cast their big hand grouper lines to desecrate the spot, 
I doubt not they thought me mad. They lighted their 
pipes and smoked black plug tobacco from Trinidad— I 
know it had paid no duty by the smell. I cast some way 
astern and as the white bait sank slowly, up from the 
bower' of corals rose a dazzling throng, angel fishes, por- 
cupines, grunts, and a vision of loveliness, a fish a foot 
in leno-th, with a yellow band from bow to stern." Ah. 
my o-rim friends, hov.^ they started as the reel gave out its 
melody and sang the hornpipe of the fishes, and the yel- 
lowtail danced. The reel sang high, low, and deep ; the 
rod bent leaped back, bowed to the waters, then tairly 
trembled as this splendid game shot along the azure sea. 
cutting the foam to turn and plunge down, scattering the 
curious throns, to rise again and come m to the click, 
click click. How it broke away repeatedly, trying to 
catch the cobweb line unawares, but there was always the 
click of the reel— that warning of danger—and the line 
gave at just the right time. So the yellowtail raced up 
and down to the music; tried all the tricks but leaping, 
dashed around the boat in a caracole, and then came 
to the net and was lifted in, as splendid a game fish as 
the Mexican gulf can boast. 
Again 1 took one, then a grunt— a lively fish like the 
Smiths, as there are red grunts, black grunts, striped 
grunts, yellow grunts; indeed, I believe I could have 
filled the floating fish car which we towed alongside with 
countless grunts of different shapes and colors. 
I now increased the size of my bait and cast fifty feet 
out into deep water. I caught Chief winking at Bob. 
They knew. my line was gone this time; but when that 
rod bent into 'a circle and the line hissed and did not 
Ibreak, they were delighted and amazed. I had game, 
however, that was too much for the tackle; despite all 
my efforts, it carried my rod deep under the water and 
for a moment held it in that disgraceful position. What- 
ever it was, it made a gallant fight; run directly away 
down the hill of the coral reef, taking at least two hun- 
dred feet of line ; then I stopped it to the laughter of the 
reel. In it came like the wind, the merry reel eating up 
the line by inches, feet and yards, to stop suddenly and 
break away. But this time I stopped it, the little rod 
bending bravely. 
"Must be a grouper," said Chief. 
"Seems more like a onery parrotfish," suggested Bob, 
while John was so intent on watching the rod that he 
did not express an opinion. 
The reel again began to cry, and presently a curious 
striped angel-like fish shot across the line of vision and 
■a moment later was lifted in— a lO-pound spadefish. 
"Well, I'll be dogged!" remarked Long John, briefly. 
"Must be some conjurin' in that rod," said Chief; 
"regularly fooled him." 
The spadefish bore some resemblance to the large 
angelfish so common here, but it was another creature, 
more active and of different habit; and as for game and 
fighting qualities, we who had watched its struggles gave 
it first place. 
In looking into the marvelous blue water filled with 
fishes which rose to meet the bait like a band of actors 
in many costumes, one could not fail to notice their 
marked individuality: the grunts of high and low de- 
gree, the splendid arrayado, Ronco carbofiero, the blue 
grunt, the blazing yellow grunt, black, red, white, golden 
and scarlet grunts, with many names. What Long John 
called the red grunt, Chief," who had a dash of Spanish 
blood, said was Boca Colorado. Of all the fishes taken in 
this delightful region, the many grunts appealed _ most 
to me. They v^ere all beautiful, often defying description 
in their splendid vestments of color, challenging the artist 
to reproduce them. They were the tamest of all fishes, 
and possessed that something for a better name called in- 
dividuality. .Their eyes follow one's every movement, 
constantly on" the alert, entirely different from the glass- 
eyed barracouta and others. 
In a cast for another spadefish I had the misfortune 
to hook a porcupine fish which I saw take the bait. It 
appeared "to be : about a foot in length, and its nature 
would not have , been suspected, but when it reached the 
surface it" began to take in air with a sucking sound, in- 
creasing in size until in a few moments it was as large 
and rotund as a boy's football, presenting a most uncom- 
' promising array of sharp spines — a marine porcupine, 
indeed. When'out away, it sailed off before the gentle 
breeze upon its back, its short fins working vigorously, 
sending it slowly this way and that. I watched it drift 
several hundred feet, when it gradually pumped out the 
wind and disappeared. In walking along the shores of 
the key, I often found small male porcupine fishes fully 
expanded like toy balloons. They had been washed 
ashore in gales, and had died retaining the oval shape, 
with spines en charge. 
Fishing here even with a rod was liable to drift into a 
slaughter : but xve had a car alongside into which the 
available fish v/er-e placed, the others being released. The 
pain experienced by fishes when hooked doubtless is min- 
imized. I could see grunts which I hooked vigorously 
shaking their jiiws, and the wound w^ould appear as a 
dark area; yet they still mingled with the throng, and 
would soon dash after the bait again. Undoubtedly these 
fishes had never seen a boat or line before ; certainly they 
were very familiar, and in shallower water where I could 
reach down and touch the coral, I induced small cow- 
fishes and porcupines to approach and swim through my 
fingers. The latter, commonly known as trunk fishes, 
were among the most remarkable in this wonderful fish- 
ing ground. Tliey were very tame, and were the arma- 
dillos of the sea, fairly boxed up in an armor that is solid 
and bone-like. Out of this projects the absurd tail, the 
dorsal and anal fins, all of which have peculiar motions. 
The tail works like the screw of a steamer, forcing them 
along, while the side fins move in a conical flying motion. 
When taken in the hand a fish would roll its eyes at me 
in a comical deprecating manner, and did not appear to 
be at all disturbed by the cliange : in fact, I found a cow- 
fish which had accidentally been left in the boat all night, 
alive in the morning, and it recovered when tossed over- 
board. 
The name cow refers to two pronoimced horns placed 
where are the horns of the cow, while there are others 
at the juncture of the tail and on the lower surface, so 
the cowfish is rarely attacked — that is, with success — by 
predaceous fishes.- Long John had a penchant for cow- 
fishes, boiling them in the shell in salt water as he would 
a -crab or crayfish. A large cowfish served in this man- 
ner, or better, deviled in its own shell, with chili, is a 
dish that ..deserves the attention of the epicureans. 
We slowly rowed inshore, and while I hunted for turtle 
nests -the men cooked dinner. Punching the sand with a 
, sharp, stick, by good luck I .ran upon a nest, the young, 
to the number" of twenty or more, recently hatched out, 
and slowly making their way down to the sea. I filled 
mv pockets with them and carried them back to camp, 
there observing their remakable instinct. I placed thern. 
in a small inclosure two feet across, and presently noticed 
that they all congregated on the water side. They were 
repeatedly changed, but always went back. The sea was 
noiseless and invisible, yet these hour-old green turtles, 
no matter where placed in the bush, invariably turned m 
the direction of the nearest water. 
"How do you explain that?" I asked the men. 
.John thought they smelt the water, while Bob ^declared 
that they were "jest natchrally born that way"— a de- 
cision at once judicial and scientific, in whicb I con- 
curred. 
[to BE CONTINUED.] 
Old Fusty. 
It was a glorious October morning — such a day ass 
one dreams of in the winter evenings, when, seated be- 
fore an open fire, the apples simmer in a row,_ mulled 
cider stands easy to hand, while a basket of juicy nuts 
peeps invitingly from the chimney-corner. I stood on 
the bulkhead, clad in a flannel shirt, warm coat and 
trousers and a felt hat, arranging my tackle— for I 
had chosen this day for tautog or blackfish. 
The old briarwood was warming, and sent clouds of 
blue smoke drifting away on the brine-laden air, while 
the surf pounded merrily along the bulkhead, throwing 
jets of spindrift high in the air, only to fall back again, 
or dash in over the occupants of the wharf. It 
stood in beads all over my coat and dripped merrily 
from, my beard. Such mornings live long in meniory 
and take ten years from one's shoulders, and again he 
is a boy— free— free as the jack-curlew that skims o'er 
the briny deep. There were few of us there at that 
early hour. Perhaps six kindred spirits all intent on. 
the capture of the hard-pulling tautog. Casting my eye 
over the assemblage as they stood at their_ various 
posts, I saw none familiar, so rigged up. baiting with 
lively fiddled-crabs and cast out. Mr rod was a split 
bamboo surf rod. I took this along in order to en- 
able me to land the heavy lead away out beyond the 
surf-line and into deep, swift water, where the big: 
fellows lie — you know the ones I mean, the fellows with' 
the white noses that Genio C. Scott mentions; they are 
the fellows who swim slowly along where the swift 
water joins the slacker current and. when hooked, bore 
for the bottom with its sheltering rocks. 
I lay in a good place waiting for a bite, when sud- 
denly I became conscious of somebody standing be- 
hind me on the quay. I heard no noise, and certainly 
didn't scent him, but was just conscious of his pres- 
ence — a sense of location or proximity, as it were. 
I had experienced it many times before, in the deep 
woods, seated in hiding, not moving a feature, scarcely 
breathing. Suddenly a "consciousness of presence" 
asserts itself, and immediately I have searched for the 
cause, moving my eyes about, first nearby then further 
out in the open, and there it is. It may be a squirrel, 
a turkey, a fox or perhaps a deer. You didn't see it, 
you didn't hear it, you didn't scent it, and yet you 
knew it was there. I think I can see some of the "old 
hands" nodding assent and saying: "He sensed it."' 
I shan't try to explain it here, however, but, whoever 
he is, we have kept him standing a long time, and 
we'd better look before he makes some "durn fool" 
noise. I turned my head, and there he was, sure enough. 
He looked enough like our late lamented friend 
Nessmuk to have been his twin brother — that is, as 
to size and general get up; but unlike our friend's, 
his whiskers differed, in that the waterline stood higher 
and terminated in what when we were boys we called 
fusty-balls. 
Well, I looked at Fusty-Balls and nodded, "Good 
morning." Lie looked at me, gave a grunt of satis- 
faction and then sat down alongside of me. That was 
all (for the present). I refilled and lighted rny pipe 
and then began the closest series of "cross questioning" 
I ever stood through. "Had I ever fished here before? 
What was I after? Had I caught any? Did I expect 
to catch any? What bait was I using?" etc. To all 
of these I answered affably, occasionally putting a 
question myself, hoping he'd quit me and go elsewhere, 
for when I fish I fish and don't want to answer ques- 
tions and talk. Long ago I learned the value of silence. 
I had just missed hooking a nice strike as the result 
of answering the old man, but you see I couldn't be 
rude; he was many years my senior; he was old enough 
to know better. I answered in monosyllables and 
finally didn't answer at all. I thought this would give 
him a hint. Have you ever met- that sort? It never 
touched him. On he went, growing more and more 
reminiscent, telling me how, when a boy, he used to do 
this sort of thing, and that it was only fit for boys; he 
could get no pleasure from it now — it was too much 
like dredging. 
He became more and more disparaging, as his discourse 
wound on and ever on, but never "up." Just then I 
hooked and landed a four-pounder. Old Fusty handled 
the fish, sniffed, and then began again: "D'ye ever 
ketch a win-an-iche, mister?" Now Old Fusty struck a 
major chord in my make-up that began to vibrate. I 
would have becm pleased to do so, and could have given 
him a nice little discourse on our friend Sahno salar 
sebago (Girard). And it surprised me not a little to 
hear one, garbed as was Old Fusty, talk of catching 
ouananiche; but, I had to 'tend to business just then, 
as I hooked and landed another four-pounder, where- 
upon Old Fusty sniffed and snift'ed again, and yet again 
he was weakening fast. He laosed into silence after 
' that, while- 1 hooked and landed one somewhat larger 
than tl?e others, 
