July, 1920 
FOREST AND STREAM 
373 
head and of a bright red eolor. When 
taken from the water and placed in a 
creel or on a stringer he immediately 
turns to a darker shade. This character- 
istic has led him to be known in a great 
many places as the black bass. I have 
found localities where this fish was 
known generally as such and from re- 
ports as to their great quantities have 
built up some high hopes of creeling 
more than my share of small-mouths 
only to find after testing the streams that 
they were the rock bass. 
The rock bass is gregarious in his 
habits as a rule, although there are 
streams, especially the ones that are 
heavily fished or preyed upon by the 
voracious mink where the species will 
not be found in shoals, probably only a 
pair or in rare cases four fish to a pool, 
but their natural inclination is to live in 
schools that vary in number from six to 
a dozen fish or more, as the nature of 
the stream and the outside conditions 
allow. With care a good angler may 
take a fair share of the fish from these 
shoals if he works his game properly 
and keeps in mind a few primary points in 
regard to the fish’s characteristics. Make 
the first cast with the utmost caution 
into the place where the fish are sup- 
posed to be. Remember that bass are shy 
and sensitive. They are easily alarmed 
and scared into hidden recesses of the 
pools they are in, therefore the veteran 
angler makes it a point to stalk his fish 
as though he were hunting any of the 
other shy game of the woods. Approach 
a pool slowly, taking advantage of brush 
and trees or weeds and grass. Keep the 
sun, if possible, in your face or at an 
angle where the shadow will not fall 
directly over the pool where the cast is 
contemplated, and if it so happens that it 
is absolutely impossible to keep the sun 
any place but back of you then lay the 
cast on the pool from a distance, back 
where your shadow will not reach the 
water. This is the one paramount factor 
in bass fishing in small, clear streams. 
The fish if alarmed by a shadow or noise 
will positively not take the lure. It is 
no waste of time to stalk a good pool 
patiently — and besides it is somewhat in- 
teresting to know that you can creep up 
and drop a bait to the shy rascals with- 
out detection, something that causes you 
to feel that you are a first-class scout 
and woodsman. After the cast has been 
properly handled and landed where the 
fish are located and watching for feed 
the chances are nine to ten that the first 
strike will be that of the King bass of 
the shoal. This complicates matters 
somewhat if the angler desires to take 
a legitimate share of the others. The 
largest bass will quite naturally make 
the most fuss in the pool attempting to 
unhook himself, also he is stronger and 
will not be so easily taken. But the first 
thing to do is to lead him with a taut 
line to a removed section of the place 
where there is room to play him close 
and land him as soon as possible without 
injuring your tackle and with as little 
commotion as possible. Work ail the 
fish that come to your hook in a similar 
manner, for remember that there are 
others as fine and probably better in the 
same place. If the fish is played and 
landed in the locality where he took the 
hook there will be but a small chance of 
interesting others of his clan. 
(continued on page 398) 
SOME QUEER BAITS I HAVE USED 
THE CHOOSING OF A SUCCESSFUL LURE WITH WHICH A WARY 
FISH IS TAKEN IS VERY OFTEN A MATTER OF SOME ORIGINALITY 
W E had poled and lined' our canoe up 
a rocky, turbulent stretch of river 
the previous afternoon, and made 
camp at the lower end of a great eddy, 
where, for a few hundred feet, the bois- 
terous stream widened into a deep, com- 
paratively quiet pool. A faint, little- 
used trail skirted the river bank and dis- 
appeared invitingly among the tree 
trunks up stream. Spruces and balsams 
rimmed the pool to the very edge, except 
at the extreme upper end, where the 
rapids tumbled down into the more quiet 
water, past a jagged outcropping of gran- 
ite — a rough terrace upon which no tim- 
ber could grow. Against the up-river 
horizon edged a line of rugged, timber- 
clad mountains, an appropriate back- 
ground for the primitive, beautiful scene. 
The spot was one of those rare nooks 
in the wilderness which may be easily 
reached by canoe, and is yet but little 
visited by man. And the big eddy looked 
“trouty,” particularly the upper end, 
which sparkled and gleamed from the ag- 
itation of inrushing water. So with many 
a pleasurable thrill of anticipation, my 
friend and I unlimbered the fly-rods and 
tackle. 
The trail led past the granite ledge, 
through a fringe of whortleberry bushes. 
As we were leaving the path, my friend 
stooped and picked up a half-grown deer 
mouse, dead, but with no visible evidence 
of how it had met its death, for the deli- 
cate fur was unruffled. 
“That’ll get the big one,” he said, smil- 
ing. “When I was a kid, I read a story 
of how some fellow caught a whopperin’ 
big trout on a mouse. I’ll just give 
By A. T. STRONG 
this one a try and see what will happen.” 
We worked our way carefully out upon 
the terrace and began lightly whipping 
the tossing water with flies; my friend 
used hackles, because it was still early 
in the day, and I my wilderness favorites 
— Seth Green and Royal Coachman. But 
the pool seemed full of trout, trout that 
apparently were eager for anything that 
even remotely resembled a fly, and showed 
no discrimination between flies in the em- 
bryonic state and those with fully-devel- 
oped wings. Cast where we would over 
the live water, and numbers of trout 
instantly flashed up from the depths of 
the pool. Several times we made doubles 
— hooking a fish on either of the two flies 
on our leaders — and we soon had suffi- 
cient for two good meals. But the size 
was small; most of the catch ran below 
eight inches in length. The sun was com- 
ing out too warm and bright for large 
trout to rise to the flies. 
Finally, my fishing partner removed 
both flies from the leader he had been 
using — a medium trout — and attached an 
Aberdeen No. 3 snelled hook to the end 
loop. To the shank of the hook he tied 
the little mouse, found on the trail, head 
toward the leader and stiffened legs 
spread wide apart. 
“Watch this,” he said, casting far out 
across the pool to where the top of a 
huge boulder glinted darkly green a few 
inches beneath the surface of the eddy- 
ing water. “If there’s a big trout in 
here he’ll probably be hugging that 
rock.” 
The little mouse struck the water sev- 
eral yards beyond the big rock. Quickly 
reeling in the slack line, he essayed to 
draw the bait toward him with a series 
of rapid jerks. Suddenly it disappeared 
in a swirling splash, as a great trout rose 
with a flash of red and gold. 
The size of the fish was almost start- 
ling, and perhaps my partner, al- 
though an experienced fisherman, struck 
with too great a force. For an in- 
stant the light bamboo rod bent and 
writhed with the weight of the surging 
fish; then, before he could pay out the 
necessary slack, the rod tip shot upward 
and the line and a part of the leader 
trailed limply over the water. An ex- 
amination disclosed that the leader, 
slightly frayed from repeated whipping, 
had broken just above the “dropper” 
loop. . . . My friend was inconsola- 
ble; for the balance of the trip he re- 
gretted his carelessness in not changing 
to a brand-new leader. 
O NE warm June evening, as Jerry and 
I were eating a belated supper in 
front of the tent, back in the hem- 
lock-covered hills of Pennsylvania, moths 
