228 
t: 
FORES T 
A N 1) S T U E A M 
May, 1919 
LIKE OLD TIMES 
Does Nol Shake 
the Boat 
Wiite for oata- 
log and full in- 
formation. 
I> e a 1 e r a and 
agent.' wanted. 
We also make an 
Inboard Engine 
tui small Imat.s 
and (• a ti o e s . 
f'ireular .^0 tells 
all about it. 
it will seem to get back once 
summer camp and lake and 
sadly neglected while the hoys 
were away. It will 
be like old times 
to glide swiftly 
and smoothly over 
the water, 
with all 
cares left 
behind. 
A Koban 
motor frees 
you from 
the labor of 
rowing — and 
and as to speed 
THE KOBAN 
WILL RUN 
AWAY FROM 
OTHER ROW- 
MOTOR. Easily 
attached to any row- 
boat — in a few minutes. 
THE GREAT 2-CYLINDER 
OW good 
more to 
river, so 
ANY 
BOAT 
KOBAN 
ROWBOAT MOTOR 
The 2-cylinder op- 
posed construction ab- 
solutely removes the 
continual vibra- 
tion which makes 
riding unpleasant, 
opens seams ami 
ruins rowboats. Spe- 
cial tilting device for 
shal’ow water and 
bea hing. 
KOBAN MFC. CO. 
229 South Water St. 
Milwaukee, Wis. 
OVER HERE AND OVER 
COMFORT CAMP PILLOWS 
are so cool ami yielding that the most restful, 
beneficial sleep is assured. These pillows have 
removable wash covers and are SANITARY 
VERMIN and WATERPROOF. Will last for 
years, and when tleflated can be carried in your 
pocket. 'Hie only practical pillow for all uses. 
Three Sizes: 11 x Ifi— $2.25, 10 x 21— $2.75. 17 
X 2fi — $2.50. Postpaid anywhere in U. S. A. 
Satisfaction is guaranteed or money refunded. 
Catalog Free. 
^'METROPOLITAN AIR GOODS’' 
KSTAHLISIIEI) 1891 
Made Only By 
Athol Manufacturing Co.. Athol, Mass. 
■FicHE^f^N'S 
r •'^RADISH 
% Ml Located on chain of six Lakes. Best 
r ^ Black Bass, Pickerel. Mackinaw 
Trout, Musky fl.shing in Mich. Tn a network of Trout 
Streams (all varieties). Finest loathing Beach. Perfect 
Sanitary conditions. Stone and I-ong T^ungalow Pin ng 
rr m. Write for bofiklct. H. D. SMITH. Bellaire. Mich. 
SALMON“TlSHTNG 
WANT E D 
FOR FOUR RODS 
C . L . YOUNG 
96 Broadway New York 
AT CRANBERRY LAKE , 
NEXT TO CATCHING FISH ONESELF COMES THE PLEASURE ' 
OF WATCHING A MASTERFUL EXPONENT OF THE ART 
By C. P. MORRIS 
HE writer is indebted 
to Forest and Stream 
for a most enjoyable 
outing in the Adiron- 
dacks, for which op- 
portunity is here 
taken to make grate- 
f u 1 acknowledgment. 
Perusing its always 
interesting p ages, 
with the call of the 
wild beckoning, and 
vacation days at hand, 
my eye fell upon an advertisement, 
couched in most attractive style, of a 
quiet, restful inn in the heart of the 
Adirondacks, in whose neighborhood 
could be found the greatest trout fishing 
in American waters. 
An ardent patron of this king of out- 
door sports since my early boyhood days, 
when prime tackle consisted of sapling 
rod, white cord and bent pin, I deter- 
mined to let my own lad of eleven years 
feel the thrill of catching his first trout, 
as I had many years before, which joy- 
ous experience is still ineffacably im- 
pressed upon my memory; and I must 
even confess that it was to feel that 
fascinating thrill once more myself, af- 
ter a long inactive period, that I deter- 
mined to visit Cranberry Lake. 
It is fair to say that perhaps half the 
joy of every fishing trip is in the antici- 
pation, for the realization often holds 
setbacks and disappointments, in which 
connection my own case, as to anticipa- 
tion, was no exception to the rule, and 
I lived in a paradise of genuine joy 
in the selection of equipment for the 
trip. The springy rod and click reel, 
the invisible leaders, the Hackles, Griz- 
zly Kings, Golden Spinners, Silver Doc- 
tors, Montreals and all the other lures to 
tempt the wary denizens of the forest 
streams and ponds. 
All prepared, we arrived at Childwold 
a station on the Adirondack and Mon- 
treal Division of the New York Central 
one misty morning very early. 
Thence to Conifer, a lumber station 
about a mile down the Grasse River 
Railroad. 
We had a very pretty ride along the 
Grasse River, really a good sized brook, 
the mere sight of which with its clear, 
cool, tumbling waters, breaking in rest- 
less rifts into quiet, deep, shady pools 
over rock strewn terraces, heightened 
my eager desire to get at the sport. One 
felt like holding up the train long 
enough to make a cast here and there 
in “likely holes” for there could be no 
doubt as to the trout being there. But 
we had to restrain impetuosity and bide 
our time until we got our boots on at 
least, and they were in the bottom of 
the trunk. 
Arriving at Cranberry Lake, a mag- 
nificent sight presented itself to view. 
A great stretch of the northern wing 
of the lake, reflecting an azure sky. 
nestling among the deep chrome green 
hills, fringed in the distance with blue 
mountain ridges, lay before us, with here 
and there a tiny island of perfect sym- 
metry dotting the expanse of water. 
And hardly more than a stone’s throw 
from the wharf at the village of Cran- 
berry, the waters of the lake tumble 
over a dam to form the source of the 
lower Oswegatchie River, coursing its 
irregular, turbulent but beautiful way 
through valley and glen to the St. Law- 
rence. 
A number of beautiful streams, full 
of small trout, flow into the lake, but 
fishing therein is prohibited by the 
Game Conservation Commission. These 
streams are annually stocked with trout 
from the State hatcheries, where they 
remain to grow large enough to take 
care of themselves, and then pass on 
to deeper waters. During the month of 
August the large lake trout, of which 
there is an abundance, move up into 
the spring holes where the brooks come 
into the lake, and readily take the fly 
at these places. Here the water is 
cooler and more food, washed down. by 
the streams, is available for them. That 
arm of the lake known as “Brandy 
Brook” is a beautiful reach, probably a 
mile long, gradually tapering from 400 
yards at its outermost point to five yards 
where the brook comes in. Beneath old 
water soaked logs along the wooded 
shores, the speckled beauties hide dur- 
ing the day, but may be seen “breaking” 
here and there, the full length of the 
reach at feeding time, early in the 
morning or late in the evening. 
I sat in a boat in the center of this 
reach one fine evening along toward 
dusk casting alternately right and left, 
but half facing the right shore, expect- 
ing a strike from that quarter. Much 
to my astonishment, at the very moment 
of “picking up” to make my right hand 
cast I heard a splash behind me, and 
seemingly my line was fast in a snag. 
Instantly wheeling around I saw my 
line whizzing up stream like a flash, 
and a moment later I landed a two 
pound buck-trout of rare beauty. Seven 
more, varying from one-half to one and 
a half pounds taken in quick succession 
gave me some sport long to be remem- 
bered. 
Next to catching fish myself, I took 
real pleasure in watching Rudy Hayes, 
a native guide, and masterful exponent 
of the art of casting. As he came up 
the reach in his canoe, the only sound 
from the tiny craft was the swishing of 
the rod, which sounded not unlike the 
call of the whip-poor-will. So deftly 
did he cast that his flies would land on 
the water like thistle down, without the 
semblance of a splash, beside an old 
stump here and a sunken log there, at 
least seventy-five or eighty feet ahead 
of him, while his line continually formed 
(CONTINUED ON PAGE 234) 
