Aug. 23, 1913. 
FOREST AND STREAM 
227 
Color of Trout’s Flesh. 
Pendleton, Ore., Aug. 11 .—Editor Forest 
and Stream: I went fishing yesterday, and my 
creel at the end of the day brought to my mind 
so forcibly and illustrated so finely a theory 
which I have long entertained, that I feel con¬ 
strained to write to you about it. 
There is a popular fallacy of very wide ex¬ 
tent, that the color of the flesh of trout is a dis¬ 
tinguishing mark which determines species. How 
often have you, upon opening a fish with pink- 
tinted flesh, heard this exclamation, “Here is a 
Salmon trout’ ” ? 
My most frequent angling trips are for the 
purpose of fishing in the Umatilla River and its 
tributaries. Practically the only trout which I 
ever get is the rainbow, Saltno irideus, but there 
is such a wide difference in the outward appear¬ 
ance of individual specimens that many local 
people believe there are several species, where 
in reality there is but one. Most of these dif¬ 
ferences are readily accounted for by noting the 
season of the year or the location on the stream 
where the one under observation may have been 
taken. As a rule, when these points are called 
to the attention of a mistaken observer, he is 
easily convinced, but there is one difference in 
individual specimens that is hard to explain to 
the average “fisherman.” This is the fact that 
some trout have white flesh, while others have 
muscle tissue almost as deeply pink tinted as 
chinook salmon. Another point in connection 
with- the question under consideration is that a 
greater proportion of the large fish have pink 
flesh than that of the little fellows. The aver¬ 
age fisherman, in describing the “big one,” will 
announce “he was a ‘salmon trout' and his meat 
was as red as that of a salmon.” 
Now, my belief about this matter is that the 
trout’s diet governs the color of its flesh. I 
further think that the crawfish is one—I won’t 
say the only one—of the kinds of trout food 
which causes highly colored muscle tissue. My 
reason for this belief is that the presence of 
crawfish in a stream and the indication that the 
trout are feeding on them is almost a sure sign 
that a large proportion of the trout, particularly 
the “big ones,” will have highly colored flesh. 
My trip yesterday brought these points out with 
great emphasis. The stomach of every fish taken 
was crammed with crawfish, and the viscera and 
juices in the body cavity were as pink as if the 
abdomen had been filled with raspberry juice. 
All the fish were exceedingly plump, and the 
larger ones particularly had flesh of as deep a 
pink tint as I ever saw in rainbows, and it was 
of extraordinarily fine flavor, too. 
I have mentioned that a greater proportion 
of the large fish have flesh of deep pink color 
than of the little ones. This I believe to be due 
to the superior ability of the larger ones to 
catch and swallow the kind of food (in this in¬ 
stance the crawfish) which causes the phenom¬ 
enon we are considering. The little fellows are 
unable to find enough crawfish of small enough 
size to be “swallowable” to “dye” their flesh. 
Has any reader of Forest and Stream any¬ 
thing to suggest in confirmation or contradiction 
of this theory? C. K. Cranston. 
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The First Worm. 
This morning, as I went to work 
(l’or work I was not wishing), 
A worm crawled briskly out and said: 
“Come on, let’s go a-fishing!’’ 
I wonder how that worm knew me. 
My thoughts, my inmost wishes, 
W hich ran, not slow to tasks, but swift 
To brooks and little fishes. 
Instead of toil and noisy streets, 
Sad hearts and anxious feeling. 
There came a haze of golden dreams 
With blessing on me stealing. 
I felt the warm, rich tide of spring 
Mount in me with elation; 
I heard the call of earth and sky, 
The red-gods’ invitation. 
I saw the lights, the wimpled gleams 
Of anther waters flowing; 
I smelled the fragrance of the woods, 
With birch and spice-buds blowing. 
I heard the wind’s low symphonies. 
The partridge drum-call rolling; 
In every hidden copse a thrush 
His silver bell was tolling. . 
Once more, beside the singing stream, 
Lost boyhood came to meeting, 
And life was as a timeless day 
That ends with mother’s greeting. 
Once more I built my midday fire 
And broiled a trouty treasure. 
And ate and drank and praised the Lord 
For life and simple pleasure. 
I’ve had, thanks be, a happy hour 
Of dreams and idle wishing; 
And all because one early worm 
Said, “Come, let’s go a-fishing.” 
—The Independent. 
