March, 1921 
FOREST AND STREAM 
125 
sea weed which gave the bottom a gray 
appearance. We had gone perhaps half 
a mile, and I was wondering what my 
silent guide was about to show me, when 
a low hiss from his lips warned me that 
something was in sight. He indicated 
with his head the object directly ahead 
when I saw what might have been a 
plank floating. The sunlight caught it 
and flashed brightly, ‘and the next mo- 
ment I saw the partly submerged dome- 
like back of a big green turtle. The 
animal was asleep on the surface or ly- 
ing there oblivious of its surroundings. 
Chief slowly and noiselessly sculled the 
boat along, approaching the turtle from 
behind, and when about twenty-five feet 
away dropped the oar and grasping the 
vibrating spear handle, launched it in 
the air. It went up slightly, then turned 
and dropped fairly in the center of the 
turtle’s back, the pole rebounding and 
floating on the water. I remember 
grasping it as the boat seemed to whirl 
about like a top, and I had a vision of 
four flappers striking the water. A roar 
and rush of water and we were away, 
shooting up the lagoon behind as pow- 
erful and animated a steed as ever 
towed a boat. 
“The peg does it,” said the Indian, 
who was bracing back and holding the 
line in the oar lock. 
The peg had certainly done it, 'and a 
four-tined harpoon could not have held 
the animal better than did this small bit 
of steel. For a long distance the alarmed 
turtle, which was not at all injured, 
raced before us, hauling the boat this 
way and that; turning in circles, rush- 
ing down into deep water, rising to puff 
and take breath, then plunging down- 
ward again and continuing the wild race 
for its life. 
Finally it began to show signs of ex- 
haustion. and Chief took the line in, foot 
by foot, easing off when the turtle made 
desperate rushes, hauling in the slack 
when the opportunity offered until final- 
ly he ran the boat alongside and with a 
quick motion seized the animal by the 
shell and held it while it beat the water 
t into foam with its powerful flippers and 
almost capsized and filled the boat. 
After a hard struggle a hitch was taken 
about its flipper and, turning it over, we 
slid it into the boat, half filling the boat 
during the operation. The steel peg had 
gone about half an inch into the shell, 
not injuring the animal in the least, 
holding entirely by suction. 
On other occasions I Saw Chief peg 
turtles, and his skill in hurling this long 
slender pole long distances with perfect 
accuracy was extremely remarkable, 
often hurling it twenty-five feet or more 
by using both hands. The turtles were 
the green variety and weighed 250 or 
300 pounds ; vigorous and powerful ani- 
mals that always make a hard fight, sev- 
eral times nearly capsizing the boat with 
terrific charges. Taking them in shore 
he released them, in a crawl or fence 
built in a square form in three feet of 
water where they enjoyed their liberty 
until they could be shipped. Sometimes 
the turtles would be seen sleeping on the 
sandy bottom, and once, creeping up to 
one, the Indian slipped over, dived down 
and seized the animal by the shell back 
of the head, holding on despite its rushes 
and dives till he tired it out, and guided 
it into the shallow water of the upper 
lagoon. 
John W. Nolfe, New York. 
FROM ANOTHER ANGLE 
To the Editor of Forest and Stream: 
W HEN the buds of Spring burst 
their jackets and the rhododen- 
drons line the banks of the trout 
streams with pink and white glory, 
those of us who know the signs get out 
our fishing tackle for the season is at 
hand. Though we may not then be 
free to roam the woods and streams, 
yet we can reflect on bygone sport and 
anticipate the future, a future of cool 
wadings and exhilerating moments 
when we play a game old trout, and of 
The still-fisherman 
pleasant pauses while we cook our 
catch over open fires. 
But I sing not of the sweet charm 
of trout-fishing on mountain streams, 
illustrious predecessors have sung that 
song in many keys; I think of the more 
humble and approachable sport of 
trolling and still fishing, yes, even the 
lowly art of fishing with a gob of 
worms. 
I am very fond of trolling — great 
exercise, great sport. To hear the line 
sing out and fumble for the reel, to feel 
the tugs and slack, to keep a tight line 
when the inevitable jump comes, — that 
is the sport for me. What difference 
does it make if the fish does get away 
at the last, the sport is not less, and it 
is a poor fisherman indeed who cannot 
find cold comfort in that. 
What clever devils fish 'are! When 
you feel sure you have them down they 
go and wrap your line around an old 
tree stump or dive through a pile of 
rocks, or even come warily up to the 
very side of the boat and, with a quick 
knock against the wood at your feet, 
shake the hook and swim away. Until 
you fish you never know what really 
good care God takes of His creatures. 
Even when I catch a lily pad it is 
not altogether provoking. I like to 
hear the reel click as I reel in and 
have the satisfaction of knowing for 
sure that my tackle is clear when I let 
it out again. 
Trolling for bass and pickerel is my 
favorite sport. I never cared much 
for “lakers”; a dead, stupid, lump of 
a fish that is more like dredging then 
fishing to catch. I never was able to 
get one of the things anyway, though 
I knew a man who could bring one in 
tany hour he chose to go out for it. 
Marketing, I call it. And I never took 
much of a fancy for tarpon or such 
fish; endurance contests for the most 
part, except where a light rod and line 
are used and then I take off my hat to 
the sportsman who can overcome a 
handicap like that. He and I are not 
in the same class. 
When trolling becomes too strident 
or unprofitable, consider the joys of still 
fishing. Still-fishing is a thing that 
dreams are made off. If you do not 
want to doze amid day-dreams while 
the boat drifts lazily around its anchor, 
you can find action looking for better 
places. Perhaps you are too close to 
shore, or not close enough; or it is too 
deep, or too shallow; or rock bottom, 
or mud bottom; or a hundred other 
things that vitally affect the peace of 
mind. That is altogether up to you. 
If you like you can sit rigid and tense, 
every nerve alert to the least swaying 
of the line. For my part, I like noth- 
ing so well as quietly coming to anchor, 
letting out about the right length of 
line, and waiting for some gentle tug 
to bring me out of my reverie. 
Speaking from experience, I have 
found that nothing is so good a test of 
friendship as taking a man out in a 
boat for a day’s fishing, — and then 
taking him out again. I never saw 
anything to equal the way a person’s 
petty foibles stick out as they do in a 
rowboat. During those rosy moments 
following a good catch, everyone is 
bright 'and cheerful, but after an un- 
eventful hour out in the sun, it is sur- 
prising the way people develop little pe- 
culiarities you would never have sus- 
pected of them. After a time like that, 
I have seen really firm old friends who 
would be ready to fall upon one an- 
other with blows at the least excuse. 
I once went out in a boat with a 
young chap who reached the high-water 
mark in my experience. We were troll- 
ing in a weedy pond, and that should 
have been enough to keep him occupied. 
But not at all. He was always wanting 
to know if he had the right amount of 
line out; he would ask me if I thought 
he had weeds on his bait, as though I 
had some sort of abnormal vision. 
Finally he completely “queered” the 
day by unwittingly dropping his arti- 
ficial minnow on his sweater. It was 
one of the large variety with five hooks 
on it. In blissful ignorance he tried to 
flip it overboard and there wasn’t a 
hook in the lot that failed to catch in 
the sweater. I leaned over to help him 
with the mess and some of the hooks 
mixed up in my sweater. Eventually 
we cut mir way free, enveloped in a 
