March, 1921 
FOREST AND STREAM 
115 
this was big in boyish eyes. A fresh 
worm was adjusted and allowed to trip 
along the bottom of the pool. Pres- 
ently the line stopped and quivered a 
bit, outside the end of a rotten pile, 
and on striking I found that I had 
hooked a heavy fish. Not realizing its 
weight I tried to swing it out over the 
low, rounded canal bank; the rod broke 
in the middle close to a defective 
ferule, the trout got slack line, and in 
a moment was free of the hook. I can 
not describe my disappointment, it was 
too keen. 
In a few minutes I rallied my ener- 
gies and built a little fire of dry wood, 
with which to burn out the ferules, re- 
fitting them to the best of my ability. 
I made the next swim in exactly the 
same line as the last, and strange to 
say the line stopped and quivered at 
the same spot. Controlling myself 
rather better I landed this trout, a 
lovely 1% pounder, a native, in perfect 
condition. 
Walking up stream a short distance 
I found a deep swirling hole, near a 
big stump, and shaded by huge willow 
trees. Here I killed a still finer trout, 
and, boy-like, I could contain myself 
no longer. It was one of the good days 
and there was plenty of water to fish, 
but I must march home as soon as pos- 
sible, to show those wonderful trout to 
my mother and family. After reach- 
ing town I used the main street, carry- 
ing the trout on a willow forked 
branch, and they attracted much atten- 
tion, to the delight of the small boy. 
M Y chief need at that time was to 
see some really first rate work, 
but I progressed quite rapidly 
through reading and practical fishing 
on all holidays. I learned of the best 
fly-fishing waters and several times a 
fine old angler, who had never caught 
trout with other than artificial flies 
came for me with his team of trotters, 
just to have company. He made his 
own split-bamboo rods and was an ac- 
complished angler. 
Saving up my Christmas money I 
bought another rod. This time one of 
Conroy’s, and made of what was con- 
sidered the best woods. I think the 
butt was of ash, middle joint of lance- 
wood and the tip of lancewood, topped 
with jungle cane. It was rigged with 
preposterously large rings, on the plea 
of reducing friction. 
I discovered that there was a large 
well-stocked stream not more than an 
hour by rail from town, and with a 
friend opened the season there in April. 
The near-by hotel was crowded with 
anglers from New York, Philadelphia, 
Harrisburg and other places, and in 
spite of a rough day, with snow squalls, 
the trout fed freely. There were many 
fishermen in the village and they were 
proud of their stream; no ante-season 
fishing was allowed. 
There were many grist mills and 
dams, and much slow-flowing water, 
with deep channels, and in between, 
short runs, known locally as “riffles,” 
but full of trout. There was much va- 
riety and plenty of trout for all hands, 
although we estimated that one hun- 
dred men were concentrated on two 
miles of water, considered to be the 
best on the stream. The total catch of 
the day was reported in a Philadelphia 
newspaper, but I had no means of 
checking the number, which was im- 
mense, for practically two miles of 
water. 
A village youth who had his wits 
with him, rose very early; as he knew 
that some of the “duds” would catch 
few fish. In all he killed three long 
strings, enough to fill a good sized creel, 
in each instance; and he sold those 
trout at $5.00 per string. He was a 
poor chap and needed the cash badly. 
I was obliged to go West for a few 
weeks, but returned by the first of 
June. I knew that the trout in that 
water quickly acquired an education; 
only a short time was required, but 
there was a good hatch of natural flies, 
and the fish were sure to rise at inter- 
vals during the day. The evening rise 
rarely failed, if the weather was at all 
decent. I packed my grip, and arrived 
at the small hotel in time for the after- 
noon and evening fishing. The weather 
was cool and conditions seemed prom- 
ising. 
I BEGAN fishing at the head of a 
riffle where many trout had been 
killed in April, but in those days, it 
seems to me, that I was always doing 
something ill-advised, to say the least 
of it. Because of a light breeze I 
sought the wrong side of the stream, 
where a high snake fence was situated 
at precisely the correct distance to in- 
terfere with the back cast. I steepled 
the back cast well enough, until I be- 
gan to take fair trout; then forgot, and 
broke my two tips at the ferules. 
I made repairs after a fashion, and 
began again on the side from which 
everyone fished, working slowly up- 
ward. Presently a native angler joined 
me, rigged in the old fashioned way. A 
heavy, home-made hickory fly rod in 
two joints, painted green, and with 
rings and reel lashed on. A good 
waterproof line and gut leader, with 
but a single fly at the end of the latter. 
It required a powerful arm to handle 
these rods, which, I should say, weighed 
nearly two pounds, but the work done 
with them was as deft and pretty as 
any one could desire. 
He addressed me, and said: “Why 
don’t you move on to one of the dams 
where the trout run larger? You rare- 
ly catch a large fish here.” I went 
with him willingly enough, and saw 
him kill one or two half-pounders; then 
he hurried on and I was left alone. 
This dam was peculiar; beginning 
some distance from the upper end, a 
deep, wide channel wound down all the 
way to a point directly above two low 
bridges, which crossed the dam a long 
cast from its breast. At this point the 
channel divided into two, and swept 
deep and slow through the bridges. The 
sun was rather hot here but knowing 
the weakness of big trout for bridges, I 
lay down on the eastern one and studied 
the water carefully. 
Yet a little while and the streams we have cherished in our memories throughout the winter will know us again. 
