532 
FOREST AND STREAIVI 
October, 1919 
THE KING OF THE LILY PADS 
HE CAN BEAT THE WHOLE LAKE AND HE KNOWS IT: ALL HE WANTS 
IS ELBOW ROOM AND HE’LL SHOW THE PLUG A THING OR TWO 
By LIEUT. WARREN H. MILLER, U. ,S. N. R. 
H E’S BOSS! he believes it himself; 
he honestly thinks he owns that 
whole lake, or at least his own par- 
ticular section or cove of it, where he 
resides! Hence, he’s fussy and partic- 
ular, like some gouty old gentleman with 
a bad liver, and, when anything comes 
into his precincts, he wants to know all 
about it — to rush savagely at it and an- 
nihilate it, if an enemy; to grab it and 
bolt it alive, if anything edible. Such 
is the true character of that pugnacious 
game fish, the black bass; and it ex- 
plains why monstrous inventions, that 
•wiggle and dive, rouse him to sudden 
fury; and why your innocent topwater, 
floating quietly on the glassy bosom of 
the pond while you are profanely argu- 
ing ■with a backlash, ■will be suddenly 
biffed yards into the air, by a strike 
from nowhere in particular down in the 
dim depths below. It also explains why 
a plug, slammed hard enough to go 
through the shingles of a barn and hook 
a cow, will not frighten him in the 
least, but instead bring forth a strike 
as sudden and as savage as the landing 
of the lure. He can lick the whole lake, 
and he knows it; all he wants is elbow 
room, and the small fry to keep away, 
and he’ll show that plug a thing or two ! 
I have fished for black bass from Flor- 
ida to Maine; casting, fly fishing, bait 
fishing — depending 
upon the weather 
and the size of the 
bass, and never yet 
have I seen his 
equal for spunk 
and punch. The 
circumstances sur- 
rounding his tak- 
ing; the setting of 
Nature’s stage for 
the drama; the 
dash and nerve 
with which he casts 
his hat in the ring 
and puts you on 
your mettle as a 
man and an angler 
— all combine to 
make him a most 
popular fish for 
me, one that I will 
give up almost any 
other date to take 
on. I presume that 
he is the toughest 
lot that wears 
scales ; see-a-head- 
The author casting for bass 
and-hit-it, is his real name. His battling 
pugnacity, and his wide, almost univer- 
sal distribution, make him the most pop- 
ular of fresh-water game fishes. 
To me, bait casting for him is the 
cream of all ways of taking him. That 
little five-foot rod, which, to cast with, 
is a fine art in itself; that jeweled quad- 
ruple-multiplying reel, that will spin for 
thirty seconds with one whirl of the 
thumb; that fine, braided silk line, kept 
down to 12 pounds breaking pressure, so 
as to give him a fair show; and the 
astonishing lures, each one more diaboli- 
cal than its predecessor, yet each taking 
its fish at certain times and seasons for 
no explainable reason — all this is man’s 
tackle, son, and it takes something more 
than an old lady to wield it, too. 
I USE the fly rod when they are run- 
ning too small to attempt conclusions 
with a regular bait. It is undoubtedly 
true that a bass of three-quarter pound 
weight is chary of attacking a plug half 
as big as himself. In clear water lakes 
I’ve watched them follow such a plug, 
chasing it valiantly out of their terri- 
tory, but not offering to pounce on it, as 
a bass of a pound or over would eagerly 
do. And in lakes where they were all 
small, I’ve cast for hours, with all art 
and a large assortment of plugs and pork 
lures, without a strike, only to go back 
over the same ground with a fly rod, 
a Silver Doctor and a Montreal and land 
doubles every other cast! Of course I 
have caught plenty of small bass on 
plugs — we all have — but as a rule they’d 
rather not, if something meek, like a 
fly, is presented to them. 
And there are days when not a bass 
will touch a plug. Hot, still, muggy, 
midsummer days, when the pond is a 
glassy mirror, and the fish are all rock- 
ing in their ham- 
mocks and keeping 
cool. Then is the 
time that the small 
frog, the helgram- 
mite, the crawfish 
and the nimble an- 
gle-worm get into 
the sketch. Are you 
a wormist? Did 
you ever snatch for 
the d — mned things 
of a summer night 
— on your knees, lit 
by a lantern — when 
you tiptoe along 
like Hamlet, watch- 
ing for that glist- 
ening streak of 
maroon, in the 
grass or on the 
garden soil, that 
tells you he is out 
and prowling about 
for his prey? But, 
he can go like a 
deer, son; and 
wormist is he. 
The lily-pad domain of the most popular of fresh water game fishes 
