170 
FOREST AND STREAM 
April, 1921 
them from the garden into the cold 
court of the outer world. A solitary 
brown-spotted greenish-drab egg of the 
grouse’s clutch still graced the rude nest 
among the sage stems but a hasty ex- 
amination of the slain gave direct evi- 
dence of guilt in keeping with the re- 
puted guile of the serpent tribe. At 
fairly regular intervals along the body 
of one of the snakes five distinct swell- 
ings were apparent — mute evidence of 
the tragedy that had taken place in the 
grouse’s home. 
Retribution had already followed 
transgression. Restoration seemed pos- 
sible. A few seconds of careful work 
with a sharp knife and five eggs, their 
shells un-broken, their contents probably 
not disturbed, were carefully re-placed 
in the nest with the sixth. The earthly 
remains of the snakes were hurled to 
oblivion with no ceremony other than 
a flourish of the staff, and the grouse, 
clucking nervously in the near vicinity 
was left alone to re-establish her house- 
hold gods and resume her patient effort 
to be fruitful and multiply the number 
of her tribe in the land. 
It would be a fitting sequel to record 
that six fluffy chicks were led from the 
clump of sage to live happily, at least 
until the fall shooting season Veracity 
forbids, for there was no opportunity to 
again visit the spot and in any case it 
may be as well in a dry recital of facts 
to leave the reader’s imagination some 
small field for endeavor. Let us hope, 
however, that success finally crowned 
the bird’s effort, for this splendid rep- 
resentative American game bird is rap- 
idly becoming less and less common since 
the advent of the automobile, the rapid 
fire shotgun, and passable roads across 
the sage plains. Doubtless it is true 
that our rugged aborigine has held its 
place securely enough down through the 
centuries in spite of the onslaughts of 
thousands of generations of bull snakes, 
coyotes, and goshawks, and in spite of 
human hunters both red-skinned and 
white. Today the balance is too heavily 
weighted against it and man must in- 
tervene with enforced game laws and 
safe refuges if this fine bird is not to 
become as rare as the bison and the 
antelope. 
Howard R. Flint, Montana. 
A CURIOUS EXPERIENCE 
To the Editor of Forest and Stream : 
1 THINK that the letters written you 
by the craft in general, of the inter- 
esting or unusual experiences in the 
out-of-doors, are most interesting. True 
little narrations they are, generally 
short, to the point and full of meat. 
Being a sort of “houn’ dorg” myself 
for these unusual stories, I must tell you 
one which I experienced. 
Three years ago my friend, Frank 
Masek, of Pullman, Wash., and I 
drove from the little town above named 
over into Idaho, a trip of seventy-five 
miles; twenty-five of which were over 
a worn out corduroy road, which no ma- 
chine had ever traveled prior to that 
season. We went that distance, and 
over such roads for one day’s fishing 
far up Elk River. 
We arrived at Elk River after much 
hard traveling, slept that night, in July, 
in a lumber yard, and awakened about 
four in the morning with frost-covered 
limbs. A quick fire, bacon and — then 
we started up-stream. The underbrush 
was so thick we could not get to the 
river for an hour. Finally we found 
a log, pushed back the brush and 
crossed, only to find another small body 
of water to negotiate. Frank thought 
it shallow, so calling for me to follow 
he stepped in. Up to his shoulders he 
went into that ice cold water. He 
crossed, however, then, shivering, wait- 
ed on the opposite bank for me. Well, 
I got through but I’m not saying much 
about that part of it. 
We found a Forest Ranger’s trail 
and followed it for some four miles, 
then cut east to where we heard the 
water of Elk River. 
Our walk had been brisk, but we were 
still dripping wet and as cold as snow. 
The sun had just started to peep over 
the tall pines as we stood shivering on 
the bank of the small river, arranging 
our tackle. Frank was looking down 
stream and I was facing him. Sud- 
denly at the outer edge of my line of 
vision I distinguished some large ani- 
mal bounding from the woods, over 
the underbrush, and coming directly 
towards us. Instinctively I ducked 
and yelled for Frank to “look out!” He 
ducked also, dropping the greater part 
of his fishing tackle into the stream, 
where it floated swiftly away. 
When I yelled the animal stopped, 
turned and ran into the woods again. 
We then saw that it was a full grown 
doe. Gathering together the remnants 
of our tackle we again began stringing 
the rods, adjusting flies and leaders, 
and all the time talking of our scare 
and wondering what had caused the doe 
to run onto us in such a startled way. 
Then, something like one hundred 
yards upstream, we heard a terrible 
racket. We fully expected to see an old 
bear come bounding at us, judging from 
the amount of noise. 
The animal struck the water and 
came splashing down in our direction. 
As it was still around a bend we could 
not see it, but as I think back over the 
situation I believe neither of us wanted 
to see it. I’ll never forget Frank’s dis- 
heveled hair, blue-cold fingers, dripping, 
clinging clothing; his big eyes looking 
as if he was expecting to fight for self 
preservation. Then around the bend it 
came — this same full grown doe (we 
supposed it was the same one) with 
her tongue hanging out of her mouth, 
her tired breathing telling plain- 
ly that she was about fagged. Close 
behind her, thirty feet perhaps, and also 
in the middle of the stream, came a 
large coyote, his eyes a steady gleam as 
he kept them on the deer. He knew full 
well that the chase was soon to end. 
The doe took to the bank some thirty 
feet below Frank and myself. Seeing 
her do this, and to head her off, we sup- 
posed, the coyote climbed the three foot 
bank directly at our feet. I had my 
bamboo pole about its middle; swinging 
it around suddenly I came down on his 
head with the butt of the pole thereby 
stopping his progress for the moment. 
By this time Frank had unwound his 
long right leg to give a kick. I heard 
a dull thud and saw the coyote land out 
into the stream. This, of course, 
turned him from the chase, or so we sup- 
posed. 
Do you know of an experience on 
record where a coyote, — supposed to be 
about as wily as any wild creature liv- 
ing and hard to be caught unawares — 
has gotten himself into such a predica- 
ment? Was it because of the fact that 
it was so far back in the woods that 
he expected to see no human? Was it 
possible that his attention was so taken 
up with the fast-tiring doe that he 
considered nothing else? Maybe there 
are times, especially when the excite- 
ment of a long chase is about over, 
when even a wise coyote disregards 
everything but the object of its chase. 
Frank and I didn’t try to solve the 
problem. We were satisfied that we had 
witnessed a scene that rarely if ever 
comes before men’s eyes and were glad 
of the fact. One thing we did agree 
upon: we decided that it was the same 
doe we had seen both times, and that she 
had been chased when first coming upon 
us, and that when she turned back from 
us she more than likely ran right into 
the coyote and, further, that she turned 
above us and came down by us, think- 
ing that we would be the lesser of the 
two evils. W. Luther Holt, M.D., 
California. 
BASS FISHING 
To the Editor of Forest and Stream: 
I AM fully aware no angler, regardless 
of how much experience he may have 
had, always hooks his bass in still-fish- 
ing with live bait. 
I recall boyhood days when we used 
the old fifteen-foot bamboo “pole” with 
line the length of pole. 
It seems to me after using rod and 
reel for several years, fewer strikes 
were missed with the old cane pole then 
with the rod and reel of today. 
I catch a goodly number of bass each 
season and should be satisfied, realiz- 
ing it wouldn’t be good sport — at least 
for every angler, unless he was a real 
sportsman — to hook and land every 
strike. 
I suppose this uncertainty of the 
manner of strike, just how far he is 
going to run with the bait is, after all, 
one of the things that lures us in still- 
fishing with live bait. 
With the old cane pole and line the 
bass was usually given just long enough 
time after striking to make the line 
taut, and that wasn’t very long. 
With the rod and reel and with most 
anglers using live bait in still-fishing, 
we generally allow the bass to run until 
he stops and then starts again. Then 
we firmy press the thumb upon spool 
and set the hook. 
I have three friends particularly who 
are very successful anglers. They use 
a light split-bamboo rod, 8 to 8% feet 
long, weighing between 6 and 7 ounces 
and use the reel below the hand, as on 
fly rod. All use a fine enamel line and 
can cast the live minnow or crawfish 
very accurately up to 100 feet. 
They laugh at the idea of letting a 
bass go until he stops and turns the 
minnow, then starts off again. 
