208 
FOREST AND STREA.M 
May, 1919 
you, however, to be careful . . . talk 
only when spoken to . . . and ask 
NO QUESTIONS.” 
“As bad as that, eh?” John demanded. 
“Yes. Chokoloskee is the place of 
forgotten memories and secret pasts. 
Many stories come out of Chevelier Bay 
— most of them are true. And they are 
not very pleasant stories either. We 
are now in the heart of the rookery 
country. Once upon a time, these quiet 
rivers and bays were white with egrets.” 
“The channel leading in is very nar- 
row,” observed John, “I wonder that a 
craft as large as the Mae can make it 
— must be deeper than it looks.” 
“The bay proper is shallow. But the 
river is navigable from end to end. In 
the fishing season they bring up boats 
that draw as much as five feet of water. 
Incidentally, some of the fishing that’s 
done hereabouts is against the law 
.... frankly, openly, brazenly so.” 
“But why should fishing be against 
the law?” John queried, somewhat per- 
plexed. 
“Because, here at Chokoloskee, they 
observe no rules. They fish in season 
and out — all the year ’round. Mullet 
is caught in large quantities here in 
the bay. Barrels upon barrels of them 
are salted and sent to various ports — 
Key West for instance.” 
A S the Mae forged ahead they made 
out the dim lines of an island. It 
was Chokoloskee, the lights were 
beginning to twinkle in Smallwoods trad- 
ing post. You sportsmen of far ways and 
enchanted streams — have you ever vis- 
ited Smallwood, on Chokoloskee? Have 
you sat on the crude steps of the little 
remote store and sorted your fishing 
tackle? Have you stopped, before land- 
ing, and stuffed every dollar of paper 
money in your sock, lest it be seen by 
too inquisitive eyes? Have you learned 
to pay in checks . . . every penny’s 
worth of what you buy, lest the rumor 
get about that you are “hipped with 
chink?” 
If none of these experiences are yours, 
then something truly romantic is still 
on the horizon of things sportsman-like. 
For of all the places that lie hidden 
behind the gulf mangroves, this quaint, 
mystic island in a fairy bay, is the most 
alluring, the most hazardous — the most 
productive of genuine thrills! 
The island is about one eighth of a 
mile wide and a quarter of a mile long 
and is rather densely wooded with man- 
groves skirting the edge and interior 
growth of oaks. There is majesty to 
the occasional groves of avacado and 
mango, for the latter, in many cases, 
were planted back in 1870 and reach 
the surprising height of sixty feet. 
Some of the trunks are twelve inches in 
diameter. 
Chokoloskee is virtually a shell mound 
— that is, where the settlement has its 
location. These giant mounds of oyster 
shell and conks struggle up to thirty 
five feet . . . solid masses of shiny, 
powdered, brittle shell, topped off by 
strange and luxuriant vegetation — that 
grows against every law of nature. 
Since 1838 the island has been known 
and used intermittently. It was a trad- 
ing post in the earlier days, during the 
grim Seminole war and its shell forti- 
fications served as forts. A few miles 
distant, up Turner River, one of the 
most bloody of all Seminole conflicts was 
fought. It is historic ground. Ameri- 
can troops, be it known, have battled up 
and down that twisting, serpentine 
stream. 
The Mae and her tender were safely 
drawn up at the rickety dock and left 
exactly as she was. There was expedi- 
ency in this. No one locks things up at 
Chokoloskee. It would be a visible af- 
front to every living mortal thereabouts. 
One thing struck the voyagers as 
peculiar . from every direction 
boats were coming abreast of the twi- 
light hush — fast little motor boats, row 
boats, dories and glade skiffs. ■ Like 
enormous water beetles they skimmed 
from nowhere in particular, freighted 
with taciturn, sullen men and gaily at- 
tired women, to finally touch some por- 
tion of the mangrove shore and stop, 
disembarking their strange occupants. 
“It must be a picnic or an election,” 
grinned John, “Gee! I never thought 
there were so many folks in this out-of- 
the-way hole. What’s the meaning of 
it, anyhow.” 
Just then a solemn bell tolled — a bell 
so resonant and insistent that its echoes 
went rolling back into the very heart 
of the surrounding swamps. 
Hendry shoved a brown finger to his 
lips as he pointed shoreward with the 
other hand. 
“Church,” was his low word, “better 
no make fun. Holy Roller. This Sab- 
bath night. We forget it Sunday.” 
And this was true. They HAD for- 
gotten. A short distance up the slope 
that was cut clear of mangroves, they 
saw the peak of a diminutive, ram- 
shackle meeting house. And further on 
still, near a shell mound, the trading 
post. 
John stooped and picked up some 
shells while ascending the rise. They 
were almost perfect conks, untouched 
(CONTINUED ON PAGE 248) 
Crawfish grow to prodigious size on the Gulf side and the demand for them is great. 
One enterprising fisherman goes for his haul in a diving apparatus 
