294 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Sept. 6 , 1913 . 
so long in the boat, and guided by the sound of 
the rippling water—for the mouth of the stream 
was completely hidden from view—I forced the 
boat half its length through a dense growth of 
overhanging bushes, and crawling under and 
through them, gained a footing on the shore. 
Inside the wall of bushes, as far as the eye could 
penetrate the shadows, the low, spongy ground 
'was strewn here and there with fallen tree 
trunks, dead, moldering and moss-covered. The 
woods were damp and chilly, and coming in 
from the bright lake, they looked dark and 
gloomy, the thick branches overhead allowing 
never a ray of sunlight to gladden the face of 
the little tinkling brook that flowed with a cease¬ 
less murmur through the dismal shades. Where 
it splashed and sputtered over a cedar root into 
a little pool, cold and clear as crystal, I dipped 
up and drank a tin cup of the water and felt re¬ 
freshed, but the gloom and dead stillness of the 
scene so oppressed me that I pushed the boat 
out from under the bushes, glad when I was 
once more back on the laughing lake and into 
the warmth of the welcome sunshine. It took 
an hour and an exciting fight with a four-pound 
bass to warm my blood and get it back into 
healthy circulation again. 
I fished and floated and idled away the 
afternoon, now and then adding a bass or long- 
face to the string on either side of the boat 
till, ere I was aware of it, the sun was below 
the trees, and soft wavy lines of mist began to 
creep along the shore, and assume strange, fan¬ 
tastic shapes as they whirled and eddied through 
the fringe of bulrushes. Away across the lake, 
from out the deepening shadows, came the pro¬ 
longed, plaintive cry of a loon, the embodiment 
of utter loneliness; and from a huge nest of 
dry sticks in the top of a dead cedar back in 
the swamp a half mile below, the shrill cries of 
the young eagles clamoring for their supper 
warned me that night was falling, and it was 
time to turn the bow of my boat campward. 
As I swung around in the gathering gloom, 
the stillness was further broken by the profound 
bass too-whoo of a great owl away back in the 
hills, which was directly answered by the mellow 
tenor of another across the lake. Back again 
from the hills came the response of another, 
different in tone, and far up the lake still an¬ 
other took up the strain. For twenty minutes 
or more the conversation was kept up by the quar¬ 
tette, and then all was suddenly still, the marau¬ 
ders probably seeking the rendezvous agreed 
upon during their talk, where plans for a night 
foray on the neighboring hen roosts would be 
matured, and each robber assigned to his par¬ 
ticular territory. 
Passing close by Long Point I was 'raised 
nearly off the seat, and each individual hair 
straightened in a combined effort to lift the hat 
from my head by an unearthly wail, seemingly 
under the very bows of the boat. For an in¬ 
stant my heart stood still, and each hair felt as 
if it was an electric needle thrust into the scalp, 
but by the time the cry was half uttered, I knew 
it was a loon, although I could not see it in the 
shadows and increasing darkness. 
Once sure that the cry proceeded from noth¬ 
ing more than a loon, the hair went down and 
the heart resumed its wonted functions, but the 
sudden shock drove the “owl quartette” out of 
mind and brought me to a realizing sense of my 
whereabouts. 
The gleam of the camp-fire a mile down the 
lake meant supper and rest for my cramped legs, 
and lifting the two heavy strings of fish into 
the boat to save the drag, a long, steady stroke 
soon brought me abreast of the island. “Boat 
ahoy! who comes there?” from the camp, and 
the answer, “The lone fisherman,” brought the 
boys to the landing with a lighted lantern, to 
see my fish and help put them away. They had 
been in camp since before sundown, and had 
eaten supper, satisfied that “Old Hickory” would 
turn up all right in due season. 
A cup of hot coffee and a bountiful supper 
took the kinks out of my legs and added a 
cheerful glow to the fire that softened the 
shadows in the surrounding bushes, and put new 
life into the monotonous creak-creak of a soli¬ 
tary cricket that had taken up quarters in the 
commissary tent. 
The frequent and fragmentary remarks of 
the editor to the “skeeters" were soon lost in 
S INCE I had the temerity to record my first 
experience with rod and reel, which appeared 
in your issue of Sept. 24,1912, it has dawned 
upon my unsophisticated mind that one chapter 
of actual practice in trout fishing is of more 
worth than a whole library of theory. This is 
not because the theory, so delightfully and 
clearly set forth by such experts as Gill, Camp 
and Lincoln, is without great value, but practice 
makes it understandable to the novice that he 
must get on the stream if he would learn how 
to catch trout, just as one must learn how to 
swim by going into the water and not from 
books. There are so many things to learn and 
so many tricks to turn in this particular sport, 
that with the limited time at the disposal of 
most men, it certainly must take years of ex¬ 
perience to become even moderately proficient 
in the art. Nevertheless, these very difficultties, 
as they have presented themselves to me, are 
interesting and even fascinating. 
It was my misfortune to become a reader of 
Forest and Stream and a would-be trout 
fisher twenty-five years too late. In two short 
seasons I have tried, with infinite patience, to 
retrieve this quarter of a century of lost time. 
With what success will shortly be seen. Talley¬ 
rand once said. “The man who didn’t learn to 
play whist is storing up misery for his old 
age.” So, likewise, the young man who fails 
to include, in the curriculum of his early edu¬ 
cation, the art of trout fishing, may be putting 
into cold storage many future regrets. 
While still new in my experience, trout fish¬ 
ing opened a new world to me. A world of un¬ 
looked for and unexpected enjoyment. It was 
an introduction into a new life. It took me into 
the heart of the woods, where the leaves of the 
forest come tumbling against one’s cheeks. The 
curtain, which heretofore had hidden from my 
eyes many charms and secrets, was uplifted. 
Never, as when wading the stream away from 
the rush and din of the city, has my blood 
flowed faster, my heart throbbed louder or my 
the recital of the adventures of the day. The 
boys had spent a most enjoyable day below, and 
had brought in a fine string of fish, but as usual 
had lost the big one. The Scribe struck him 
near the lower island. A lovely bass of such 
extraordinary size that he declared my 614- 
pounder might have easily hidden under one of 
his pectoral fins. Jim here chipped in with a 
batch of elaborately prepared testimony to sus¬ 
tain the Scribe, and I was silenced and over¬ 
whelmed, and gave up the unequal contest. 
As for myself, I had passed a pleasant, 
happy day fishing, idling and dreaming; a day 
that leaves pleasing memories to come after; a 
day with nature in one of her best moods, lis¬ 
tening to her many voices and quaint sermons, 
and I felt that I was better for it all. 
Of a truth, the subtle influences, the won¬ 
ders and mysteries of the woods and the waters 
are beyond our ken. 
[to be continued.] 
pulse beat quicker than at the swift and some¬ 
times unexpected rise of a fighting trout to the 
sucessful lure. But, believe me, I had lots of 
time to recover from these rare thrills. Through 
the past winter I had looked forward with an¬ 
ticipations to the coming spring. The prob¬ 
lem of finding good trout water in some com¬ 
paratively nearby locality presented itself. By 
chance I heard of the Wallenpaupeck. This 
stream has its headwaters in the highest point 
of the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania and 
forms the dividing line of Wayne and Pike 
counties. It is a beautiful stream pushing its 
circuitous way through charming scenery, its 
banks lined with moss and ferns and decorated 
in many places with smiling rhododendrons and 
mountain laurel in great profusion. 
It was the month of June, when nature 
speaks most eloquently and the song birds 
warble never so bewitchingly. I found the 
easiest fishing from the Wayne county side of 
the stream, but, mark you, this is mentioned 
without reference to the ill-natured remark of 
a Wayne county man who told me that Pike 
county is chiefly noted for its rattlesnakes and 
villanous whisky. In simple justice to Pike 
county, I am compelled to discredit this evil 
reputation, for during my wanderings into Pike 
county I saw neither the one nor tasted the 
other. Of course, it may be I was more fortu¬ 
nate than others in escaping both. Certainly I 
had no desire to test the venomous quality of 
either. What was more desirable was to see the 
trout rising in the early morning and evening. 
It was a promising sight to an amateur. 
Those caught measured from eight inches 
to twelve inches. My friend, Mr. Ray Topping, 
of Brooklyn, would bring to his reel a half 
dozen before he had his breakfast. But he is a 
past master in the art. Being at the foot of the 
class, no luck attended my painstaking but 
blundering efforts. Most of the fish were taken 
on the coachman and Beaverkill flies. The 
grasshopper was a great sucess as a lure with 
Trouting on the Wallenpaupack 
By CHARLES D. DAVIES 
