320 
FOREST AND S T R E A M 
June, 1920 
KEEPS FOOD COOL 
ON YOUR OUTING 
TMAGINE how pleased you 
would be on your next out- 
ing if you could serve your 
salad and sandwiches, crisp and 
cool; your beverages cold and 
all the food fresh as can be. 
REFRIGERATOR 
makes all this possible. Built the same 
as the finest refrigerator, it keeps food 
coo 1 36 hours on one filling of ice. 
The Hawkeye Picnic Refrigerator 
is very durably and finely constructed 
and will give perfect satisfaction. 
Can be obtained in several, different 
sizes forindividual use, or for parties 
and automobile use. 
FREE— ‘OUTERS MENUS’ 
Send for this booklet of tasty 
menus and receipes suggestive for 
outings, picnic and auto parties— and 
telling about our 30 day free trial offer. 
If ’rite for Booklet I. 
Burlington Basket Co. 
1550 Hawkeye Bldg. 
Burlington, Iowa 
L 
CREE’S COMMONSENSE 
CAMP STOVES 
fboStii" CAMP STOVE 
Set your dealer or write us 
D. W. CREE CO. 
Established 1876 
Box 158 Griggsville, Illinois 
U. S. ARMY PUP TENT, S4.75 
declaimed from Army Hase 
Combination Jack Knife 
and Spoon . . $1.00 
Army Camping Blankets 7.00 
Heavy Khaki Pants 4.00 
Tanned Calf Scout 
Shoes . . . 4.00 
TJ.S. Navy Hammock 3.50 
Gov’t No. 1 Hip 
Rubber Boots 5.50 
Cowhide Boston 
Bag . . . 3.25 
These prices include 
Postage Prepaid. 
Write for Catalog and Money Saving Prices. 
OLD COLONY STORAGE CO. 
] Dept. S, 40 Court St., Boston, Mass. 
J— — t. ■LM Msana— 
THE THRILL OF BATTLE 
HOW A GAMY SALMON WAS PLAYED FOR ONE HOUR 
AND TEN MINUTES AND FINALLY BROUGHT TO GAFF 
By MURRAY VANN 
E is a poor fisherman 
who does not pride 
himself upon the skill 
and strategy rather 
than upon the avoir- 
dupois of his many 
catches. To be sure 
the over-flowing- creel 
is a very good recom- 
mendation and its op- 
posite a painful and 
awkward embarrass- 
ment. Nevertheless, the 
stories we hear from regular fellows are 
those of the ready hand, the lightning- 
like manoeuvres and it may be, a bit 
of camouflage. I have quite forgotten 
the number and weight of my best 
catch but so long as I am able to retain 
the benefits of memory, I shall thrill 
again and again as I relate the story 
of my hour and ten minutes’ battle 
royal with my one and only salmon. 
(Regular fellows will please pardon the 
inference that I am of them and read 
further to see if I really have the pass- 
word ! ) 
It was near the mouth of the Salmon 
River which empties itself into Cheda- 
bucto Bay not far from Guysboro, Nova 
Scotia. The requirements of my parish 
work necessitated the keeping of a horse. 
My buggy always contained one or the 
other of two* congenial companions, my 
fishing gear or my rifle, sometimes both. 
Unfortunately for my habits of study 
and consistent work, most of the roads 
which I traversed either crossed or ran 
along beside tantalizinglv-good streams. 
And I am not so sure that I was less as- 
ceptable or useful in the village because 
of my much foraging. It were better for 
the world could it have more of the glori- 
ous abandonment of the out-of-doors! 
I HAD been at the Salmon Hole twice 
before that spring but found that the 
ice from the lakes was still jamming 
through. On this, my third visit, how- 
ever, I found only the swollen waters 
which the weeping snows of the moun- 
tains seemed ever to be plentifully replen- 
ishing. It was a great black, fast-moving 
torrent and yet without break or ripple. 
I stepped to the top of the over-hanging 
boulder and cast off, letting my seventy- 
five feet of reliable line and my little 
trout-hook w-ith its gob of worms swirl 
away to the bend. I had the point of 
advantage as far as sight was concerned, 
but a sad place of disadvantage should I 
connect with anything worth lifting. 
Fifteen feet in the air meant a killing. 
I could hardly expect to throw a ten- or 
fifteen-pounder up over my head with 
my little split-bamboo and from such a 
stand. 
You see I was geared for little stuff 
and was just taking my daily try to pick 
up something in passing. But under- 
neath my hat, away down, I had a sort of 
an idea that some day or other I would 
walk into the village claiming the added 
distinction of Conqueror. 
Although the section was a sports- 
man’s paradise, there were few who 
qualified. It was either some of the boys 
who lived nearby who yanked them out 
before they knew what had hit them, or 
some expert angler with his much tackle 
lately arrived from Boston or New York 
and settled down for the summer until, 
under the Grace of the Holy Saint, Izaak, 
he should maintain his tinselled reputa- 
tion. I classed myself among the every- 
day human “In-Betweens.” 
The next time I let my line run down 1 
gave all I had, a reckless procedure had 
I taken my prospects at all seriously. I 
could see the little pink roll wobbling and 
bobbing on top of the water. I turned to 
look across the fields to see if my horse 
was standing quietly when I came very 
near being tipped off the rock and into 
the swirling waters. Fortunately I was 
able to connect with a bit of tough herb- 
age and with eyes a-bulge and nerve 
a-strain I began to reel in my slack. 
I was afraid to tighten on him. I 
thought of that wee little hook. But then 
I knew he would toss it out if it didn’t 
set, so I took a chance and gave him a 
vigorous jibe. He didn’t respond. I must 
be caught on bottom. Again I jerked 
his mouth. I was afraid I was playing 
a snag 
Zsssttt. . . . The third one took. But 
my point of advantage was a mighty as- 
set. I could see his direction and guage 
his speed readily for I was above him. 
I had no automatic, however, and was a 
bit fearful of consequences between the 
break and the gathering in of my slack 
as he shot back to bottom right up un- 
derneath me again. But that second 
gave me the sight of a life-time. 
The conqueror and the conquered 
