116 
FOREST AND STREAM 
March, 1921 
Sure enough a short distance above 
the lower edge we noted a very large 
fish, for that country, in about 10 feet 
of clear spring water. There was ab- 
solutely no chance with the fly, but I fan- 
cied that a large worm, properly pre- 
sented, might bring results. I did not 
forget that fish. 
P ROCEEDING up stream I discov- 
ered much perfect water. The 
western side of all the upper por- 
tion of the dam and a long riffle of good 
depth was shaded by a line of willow 
trees. They threw a pleasing soft light 
on the water; a little breeze was rip- 
pling the surface gently and here and 
there a rising trout was absorbing 
every fly that floated over it. I must 
have spent at least three hours on pos- 
sibly 200 yards of water at this place. 
It was to me the perfection of fly fish- 
ing and required delicate and careful 
’ casting. 
On my way down to the dam I took 
several fine trout from the channel. 
One could just manage to command it 
by exercising the greatest care, as the 
water reached within an inch of the 
tops of one’s stockings. 
When there was a good rise of nat- 
ural flies the trout left the channel and 
spread themselves all over the dam. In 
the evening every square yard of water 
would be dimpled by a rising trout. 
At a marshy spot some distance up 
stream I had grubbed out a few worms 
with a sharp stick, and prepared to 
tempt the big trout under the bridge. 
Again proceeding carelessly I used the 
same old leader, merely attaching a 
snelled bait hook to the end of it, and 
baiting with the largest worm I had. 
A small piece of lead from a tea chest 
was pinched on above the snell. 
Drawing off an abundance of slack 
line from the reel I threw the bait well 
above the bridge and allowed it to sink 
and travel slowly through the bridge 
which was certainly not more than two 
feet above the water. I gave much time 
and lots of slack line; then reeled up 
and struck as well as I could. The big 
fish was on. It was hooked, but it was 
a deuce of a job to bring it up from a 
depth of ten feet and through a bridge 
that seemed to rest on the surface of 
the stream. 
At last the trout appeared near the 
upper edge of the bridge, apparently 
pretty well tired out by the struggles to 
remain in its haunt. It looked to be well 
hooked, but there was no place to strand 
it, and I had lost my small landing net 
away back up stream, while peering 
under a mill. 
I threw the rod into the hollow of 
the left arm, took the line in hand and 
gently worked the trout from under 
the planking. It seemed in my hands 
and an easy matter to quietly swing it 
upon the bridge; but as soon as the 
weight of the fish was on the leader the 
trout gave a little flop with its tail, the 
gut broke two feet from the hook, and 
the “buster” (that should have been 
mine with care and good judgment) 
slowly sank beneath the bridge, too tired 
to swim away. I was very young and 
for a time was quite heart broken. The 
worst of it was that I knew that I had 
been a fool, not a pleasant realization. 
I had no stomach for the evening rise, 
so returned to mine inn for my supper. 
I was a trifle consoled when I saw the 
porter putting away my fish, as there 
were some very fine native trout. 
T HE next morning was cool and sun- 
shiny, and as I walked up stream 
I noticed trout feeding below a 
mill, in the edges of a slow stream of no 
great depth, the bottom was mostly 
gravel and coarse sand,’ and I soon real- 
ized that small members of the stone fly 
family were probably the attraction. 
By approaching the trout from below, 
and placing myself in the proper posi- 
tion, I could see every one of these fish, 
which were feeding in water only a 
few inches in depth. I do not think that 
I ever had more fascinating fly-fishing, 
as I had to cast accurately and delicately 
to individual trout, and there were no 
small fish. Of course there were not any 
big Brown trout to fill up the creel, but 
they were lovely native trout. Well fed, 
handsome natives — averaging a half 
pound each — were good enough for me. 
I had a fine basket and remembered 
that friends of mine were giving a little 
dramatic entertainment that night at 
which they wished me to be present. I 
was satisfied that I had enough trout 
for a special purpose", which was this: 
The principal of a young ladies’ board- 
ing school was a good friend of mine, 
and I wished to give all those pretty 
girls a trout supper. The catch of the 
day before had been on cold storage 
and was hard and fresh, and when all 
the fish were turned out on a large tin 
waiter we counted 47 very beautiful 
trout, as the spoils of a morning and an 
afternoon’s fishing. A good plain dinner 
was served before our departure at 
three o’clock p. m., and we arrived at 
home without even a trace of fatigue. 
THE ROLE OF THE SUCKER IN SPRING 
AT THIS SEASON OF THE YEAR WHEN THE EARTH IS AWAKENING FROM 
ITS LONG SLEEP THE FISHERMAN FINDS IT HARD TO STAY INDOORS 
E VERY year just preceding the 
blood-root, skunk-cabbage season 
1 am afflicted with an overwhelm- 
ing desire to go afield for an outing. 
I would that I were differently con- 
stituted, for coming as it does, midway 
between the arrival of the first robin 
and the opening date of the trout-fishing 
season, it is too early to pick May 
flowers and too cold to go on a picnic. 
Northern weather is not the most 
stable variety at this season o# the 
year, and the good old reliable snow- 
shovel is still relied upon to furnish 
all necessary out-of-door recreation by 
most people, who are quite content to 
contemplate their outings from the 
parlor windows until after our Roman- 
Americans have inaugurated the dan- 
delion picking season, but I am of too 
nervous a temperment to sit down calm- 
By CARL SCHURZ SHAFER 
ly in an easy chair and contemplate 
future pleasures. As soon as my mind 
commences its eagle flights of fancy I 
thirst for the flesh pots of contem- 
plative recreation like a hungry dog 
yearning for a succulent buried bone. 
There is no foregoing the desire or 
putting it aside with a resolute resolu- 
tion, no submerging it in social gaieties, 
nor crushing it under the weight 'of 
business cares. It is a permanent crav- 
ing, which from its inception, continues 
to beckon to me with dogged persistence 
until I capitulate and commence to pry 
up my half frozen garden in a mighty 
struggle with nature to obtain a few 
chilled angle worms, while all the 
seething turmoil of rapidly changing 
events are momentarily forgotten in an- 
ticipation of a day of pleasure in some 
sun-lit retreat where the suckers bite. 
The travailing agony of desire is never 
over until a pint of crawling, light bay 
substance half fills an old salmon can 
that smells delightfully reminiscent of 
past pleasures. Then my soul is at 
peace and I march boldly away, con- 
tent to suffer in silence the sneers and 
jeers of my misguided friends who are 
diabolical in their condemnation of 
such sport. 
T HE majority of the world dispises 
ia sucker. I do too, one kind — the 
agarian sucker is altogether a dif- 
ferent creature, entitled to far more 
consideration than is accorded to him 
by people who confuse him with the 
other species and vehemently try to 
impugn his character and create the 
impression that he has no place in the 
piscatorial economy of nature. 
