An Inquiry Concerning the True 
Joy of Angling. 
For a great many years I have been a mem¬ 
ber of a family in which everybody fishes, ex¬ 
cept the women. When they don't fish, they go 
for bait. They hunt, too, these anglers qf mine, 
in the fall; but it is quite evident to a disinter¬ 
ested observer that while it may be that they 
fish because they have to, because they can’t 
help it, they hunt because there is nothing to 
catch at that time of the year. Of course, I do 
not mean to intimate that these anglers fish to 
the exclusion of all other pursuits, but mornings 
and evenings—on every holiday and every vaca¬ 
tion, and at every other moment they are able to 
purloin. Indeed, so complete is their obsession 
that the greatest longing of each one of them 
is to find a medical man who will order them to 
take a year’s rest from business. 
Being a woman, myself, I have never, of 
course, actively participated in the family dissi¬ 
pation. None the less I have theories thereupon. 
Theories that have taken years to formulate. 
One of them is upon the questions as to where¬ 
in lies the true joy of the angler. 
I have studied this question with care—sum¬ 
mers, springs, falls, winters. I have studied it 
in the early morning hours, after the anglers, 
for whom I have prepared a 4 o’clock breakfast, 
have joyously taken themselves off. I have 
studied it as midnight approached, and was 
still waiting for these same fishermen to re¬ 
turn for their suppers. I have studied it while 
removing reels, and flies, and bait cans from 
my best pail or mantel-piece, while carrying 
away wet and fishy old clothes from my best 
bed, while stumbling over nets and fishing rods 
and gum boots in my front yard, while seeing 
my cellar turned into a regular bait preserve, my 
best washtubs water logged, my new wash- 
boiler rusted full of holes. I have studied it, 
too, while breakfasting, dining and suppering on 
fish stories, as we have persistently done all 
these many years; while acquiring a speaking 
acquaintance with every fish caught by every 
member of the family during their entire lives; 
while sitting by my fire on winter evenings, 
welcoming with joy any late addition to some 
long familiar yarn. 
The result of this enlightened cogitation is the 
conviction that in the long run, the greatest 
enjoyment of the angler does not lie in catch¬ 
ing fish. 
Wherein, then, does it lie? 
When anglers go a-fishing they talk with en¬ 
thusiasm of the blue sky, of the wind in their 
faces, the ripple of the mountain stream and 
the beautiful shadow of the mountain. They 
extol the delight of loitering along the water, 
of sleeping with only the stars for covering, of 
the smoke of the camp-fire and of the freedom 
from care. Yet it lies in none of these. 
It certainly does not lie in the bait getting 
aforementioned, when, long after nightfall, 
armed with lanterns and torches and nets large 
and small, the anglers dredge the bottom of 
some favored run for stone catfish, a dainty 
beloved of the bass; when they stand on a riffle 
in the noonday sun, turning over stones and 
driving the escaping helgramites into a net; nor 
even while digging for lamprey eels, up to their 
knees in mud and ooze. 
Neither does it lie in the anticipation nor in 
the preparation, though the former may extend 
over months and the latter involve the over¬ 
turning of the whole house and of every store 
in town. _ The real joy of the angler does not 
even lie in the fishing trips themselves. It lies, 
I am convinced, in telling about them. 
Consider the Old Angler. He has been catch¬ 
ing fish in the waters hereabouts for well-nigh 
sixty years. Many of the tales he tells are of 
events that happened quite that long ago. Once, 
for instance, on a beautiful day in April, when 
the ice was still clinging to the edges of the 
stream and- occasionally snow flakes filled the 
air, and clung to his rod and line, he caught so 
many trout that his basket wore off all the skin 
on his hip carrying it home, it was so heavy. 
Now—Of course there was tremendous sport in 
such an afternoon’s angling. No one will deny 
that. But could it possibly have been as in¬ 
teresting as it has been to tell the story for 
sixty years? 
Then there is the Young Angler. Twenty 
years ago he caught an enormous trout in a 
most peculiar way, and was so excited thereby 
he has not quite cooled down yet. It was a big 
trout. When he held it up for me to see, I 
thought it was a shad. He caught it after dark, 
on a white-miller, at the mouth of a mountain 
river. It jumped at an upper fly, and missing 
it, hooked itself on a lower one through the 
tough skin behind the fin on the top of its back. 
He had a thrilling contest before landing it; 
indeed, he had to call for help to do so. 
Now, I am willing to admit that the pleasure 
of the fray was keen; that undoubtedly one of 
the proudest moments of his life was that in 
which he walked into the waiting room of the 
little mountain inn, bearing with him his captive. 
But he has told that story for twenty years, 
each time living over the entire scene. 
Another time, quite as long ago, the Old and 
the Young Angler went a-fishing together. By 
an accident delightful because of rare occur¬ 
rence, the Young Angler caught all the fish, 
having at the end of the day twenty-two fine 
trout, while the old man had but two or three 
rattling around in the bottom of his basket. 
Now, I ask you, did not a large part of the 
Young Angler’s joy in catching these fish lie 
in the fact that he was already, in his mind, 
telling of his exploit, and looking ahead through 
the long years during , which he would dangle 
those twenty-two trout before the old man’s 
eyes? Of course it did! 
Therefore is it my conclusion that the angler’s 
chiefest joy lies in telling of the fish he has 
caught. From this conclusion nothing can move 
me! Nothing! No argument or ridicule or 
assertion can convince me that the delight ot 
the catching of any fish, however enormous it 
was, however strong it pulled, however long it 
sulked, however many times it was reeled in and 
out, however notable its capture, ever, by any 
possibility yielded the profound and soul-satis¬ 
fying bliss contained in sixty or forty or even 
twenty years talking about it. 
Justina Johnson. 
Those Bay d’Espoir River Salmon. 
New York, Oct. 15 .—Editor Forest and 
Stream: My attention has been drawn to an 
‘article in your issue of Sept. I, 1906, signed L. 
O. Crane, and to another in your issue of Sept. 
22, 1906, signed W. I. Carroll, in both of which 
reference is made to myself. 
The false reports circulated by your corre¬ 
spondents in these articles have been corrected 
in the latter issue by your publication of a 
letter to you from the Fishing Gazette, but I 
wish to point out that the following paragraph, 
which should have been easily available to both 
of your correspondents, appeared in the St. 
Johns Evening Herald of Aug. 9, 1906: 
“that salmon case. 
“Mr. A Muir, the Scotch angler who was 
salmon fishing on the South Coast and respect¬ 
ing whom the charge of leaving some 200 to 300 
salmon to rot on the bank of Bay d’Espoir 
river was made, is now in town, with his guides, 
Arthur English and Charles Blanchard, of the 
West Coast. They explain that the cause of the 
salmon, about 60 in all, being left there, was 
that the gasolene schooner which he had hired 
from Penneys, of Ramea, was sent there for 
provisions, but was delayed by fog and, being 
short of food, Mr. Muir and they had to break 
camp and come out to the coast, and their canoe 
would not carry the fish, as well as their outfit, 
so the salmon had perforce to be left behind.” 
Regarding this paragraph from the St. Johns 
Evening Herald, I extract the following from 
my letter of Sept. 13, 1906, to the Editor of the 
Fishing Gazette: 
“That paragraph was not inspired by me, 
but although inaccurate it shows why the fish 
had to be abandoned.” 
I may add that the salmon caught before the 
schooner was sent away for mail were, of course, 
taken down to her (by boat), and it was only 
those caught while she was away that had to be 
abandoned when, owing to the unexpected de¬ 
lay in her return, I was forced to break up 
camp. 
Your correspondent, Mr. Carroll, refers to 
statements made to him by Mr. O’Rielly con¬ 
cerning me. Although I cannot say what Mr. 
O’Rielly may have told Mr. Carroll, I do know 
that the former was perfectly well aware of the 
number of fish that had to be abandoned at 
Little river, and the reason for it. I may there¬ 
fore be permitted to doubt the absolute ac¬ 
curacy of Mr. Carroll’s repetition of whatever 
statement Mr. O’Rielly may perhaps have made 
to him. 
I see that on page 578 of your issue of Oct. 13 
your correspondent, Carroll, has had to un¬ 
reservedly withdraw a slander repeated by him 
regarding another angler, a Mr. Notman. What- 
