650 
FOREST AND STREAM 
NOV. 22 , I9I3. 
Old Time Talks Again. 
By EDWARD T. MARTIN. 
more to further the public good than is the 
farmer,. lumberman or manufacturer who does 
not post his land. They are not preserving the 
game for the benefit of the public, but simply 
to satisfy their own individual selfishness. It 
ought to be plain to any person of common sense 
that this is wrong in principle. It is just such 
statutes as these which cause so much complaint 
by the common, every-day, ordinary sportsman. 
He rails against the hunting or fishing license 
and the game laws in general because of such 
manifest unjust enactments. He will tell you 
that these laws are all enacted in the interest 
of the wealthy class, and one can readily appre¬ 
ciate that there is some slight foundation for 
such complaints. And because of this, and other 
fancied injustice of the game laws, violations 
are committed with impunity, public sentiment 
is adverse to such regulations, and the game 
officers have a difficult task in enforcing them. 
Now, let us see about the proposition of the 
private preserves being the ultimate saviors of 
■our surviving game supply. If the ordinary 
■course of events occurs, perhaps this may be true. 
But the fact remains, and it cannot be disputed, 
that if this does happen the game will be pre¬ 
served for the benefit of the few at the expense 
of the many. Do we want that to happen? Where 
there is one sportsman who can afford to be an 
individual preserve owner, or a member of a 
club owning a preserve, there are hundreds who 
are not so fortunate. Do we want to deprive 
these hundreds of all enjoyment with gun and 
rod? That is the vital question; and that seems 
to be the point which those who advocate the 
policy of “More game and fewer game laws”— 
which, being interpreted, means less legal restric¬ 
tions on and more encouragement to private 
propagation of game on private lands—have in¬ 
tentionally or inadvertently overlooked. 
Before we agree with these advocates we 
should first inquire: Has the game supply of the 
country become so reduced that we should now 
give up all hope of preserving and increasing it 
in the interest of the public, and turn it over 
to the care of wealthy individuals? For one, I 
absolutely deny this is so. I believe the outlook 
generally throughout the country is entirely hope¬ 
ful and promising. Sportsmen everywhere are 
being aroused to better conditions; better laws 
are being enacted; the work of enforcement of 
these laws is being systematized; the states are 
working diligently on the problem of increased 
propagation in connection with protection; pub¬ 
lic game refuges are being established both by 
the state and national governments, and alto¬ 
gether there is no sane reason to be discouraged 
with the outlook and turn over our splendid local 
game to be wholly exploited by the wealthy class, 
while the poor man is totally eliminated from 
consideration. It is a time for all those who are 
interested to get together and co-operate for the 
preservation and increase of our present supply 
to the end that all sportsmen—be they rich or 
poor—may have an equal opportunity to continue 
to enjoy the glorious sport outdoors with gun or 
rod. 
Ellendale To Keep Moose. 
Ellendale, N. D. — Mayor Miller has ar¬ 
ranged to keep the cow moose captured in this 
■county last summer at the State industrial school 
grounds here. A large inclosure has been made 
and the State Game Board has issued a permit 
to retain the animal in captivity. It was cap¬ 
tured by throwing a loop over its head after it 
had fed in the sloughs and tree claims in this 
county. It will be used as the nucleus for a 
zoo at the State school here. 
£^1¥THICH do you like better, shooting or 
YY fishing? You have had much experi¬ 
ence in both. Tell us which furnishes 
the best sport? If compelled to give up one, 
would you stop shooting, or would you lay aside 
your rod ?” 
These questions were asked me not long 
since, and are as hard to answer as the riddle 
of the Sphynx. When I am shooting and there’s 
game afield, the rod is forgotten. When warm 
June days come and bass are striking and trout 
are jumping, then the best place for the old gun 
is in its case, there to remain until honking 
geese are heard in the air and wind, with fog 
and splashes of cold rain tell us another year 
is getting old. 
I have fished in many waters, salt and fresh, 
from the pine-hidden lakes of Maine to the dash¬ 
ing rocky streams of Washington, yet as a fisher¬ 
man never was first class. Never knew fish and 
their ways as I knew game and its habits. 
In both shooting and fishing, knowing how 
is nearly the entire battle. In such sports as 
in everything “knowledge is power.” The good 
game finder, although perhaps an indifferent shot, 
day after day will bring in larger bags than one 
who, although a crackerjack with the gun, has 
never made the habits of the wild his study, 
and the same rule applies to fish and fisher folk 
almost to a like extent. 
In fishing, I have two hobbies. I believe, 
except of course using a fly, a short casting rod 
fills the bill for almost every kind of fish; and 
as bait or lure, salt pork stands out, a finger 
long piece of rind, cut thin and split down the 
middle and used sometimes with a spinner, more 
often alone or rigged tandem with another of 
its kind. 
“That! You intend using that?” I was 
asked when going with some friends after fluke, 
and again after hake, off the Jersey c.oast and 
around the Sandy Hook lightship. I told them 
I thought I did, and with it I caught more than 
all the others combined. 
“Throw that contrivance overboard,” I was 
advised when going after striped bass in San 
Pablo Bay. I did not, and in an hour my 
friends were all begging for pork rind. 
What are its merits? It is white and shows 
nicely, particularly in dark weather or in water 
not over clear; then there is no constant re¬ 
baiting. One piece will last half a day. Besides, 
when reeling in it comes back full of life, twist¬ 
ing and kicking like some water worm swim¬ 
ming for safety, or a pair of animated legs 
going off on a toot, having left the rest of them¬ 
selves in some forgotten place. In fresh water 
a pork tandem, the bottom hook being set just 
where the top strip of rind ends, is a world 
beater—a killer. It is something a hungry fish 
will grab, a pugnacious one go out of his way 
to fight, and a curious one investigate with al¬ 
ways the same result. It is death on short 
strikers such as wall-eyed pike and sometimes 
pickerel; in fact, any fish that has fed well and 
does not feel very hungry, and the longer it is 
used the more limber and wiggly it becomes. 
Last summer fishing in Lake Chatcollet, 
Idaho, toward the end of the trip every line I 
had became worn and rotten. A soft silk cast¬ 
ing line could not be found in the local stores, 
and rather than use one of the glazed “ropes” 
which alone remained of the summer’s stock, the 
old lines were kept on in spite of the chance 
that any sizeable fish might break something and 
go away with hooks, pork and more or less of 
the line. 
On the last day out bass were striking free¬ 
ly and nearly a limit catch had been made with¬ 
out accident, when a big fellow jumped half 
out of water and took the lower hook of the 
tandem. Perhaps a little rattled by its fierce 
plunge and noisy splash, I struck back too hard, 
and the line broke. 
“Too bad,” said Captain Ed., who was row¬ 
ing. “Nice fish, that. Hullo, look there!” 
What the captain saw was a little clump of 
rushes thirty yards away waving like a wig-wag 
signal in a gale of wind. A few strokes of the 
oars brought the boat where we could see what 
was going on, and there was our fish, a four- 
pound bass, struggling hard to escape with the 
top hook caught in an extra thick bunch of 
weeds. Fortunately our landing net had an extra 
long handle, and the hook held fast, for the fish 
was so active it took several minutes before, 
with a swoop and a scoop that wet his arm to 
the shoulder, Captain Ed. landed him. 
That Chatcollet Lake is some place for fish; 
yes, and for game also. Once near where I was 
casting a deer took to water, followed by two 
boys, trying in a heavy boat to get near enough 
to kill it with a pocket knife. Again, some grouse 
hunters “flushed” a bear, which with a startled 
“W-o-o-f” broke cover and took over the hill 
and away. Then as weather cooled many snipe 
and duck came in. 
The trout found in this and neighboring 
lakes were not as good for table use as bass 
found in the same waters, neither did they seem 
as gamy. With trout it was a savage strike, a 
rush or two, then nothing until frightened by 
the net, but a bass would fight all the way and 
never give up. 
Things were different in the rapid running 
streams of Idaho and Washington, the trout 
there being strong and game, and a most 
superior table fish. 
Back twenty miles from nowhere I found 
a stream full of big fellows, of which more 
some other time, but couldn’t get tackle that 
would hold, and lost on the average through 
something breaking two fish out of every three 
hooked. I well remember one of the first I had 
an argument with. Expecting trouble, I was 
using an imported line with leader of twisted 
wire covered with silk. The trout struck hard 
and at once headed down stream for some very 
swift rapids. It was impossible to check or turn 
him, and just before reaching a lot of rocks, 
which marked the beginning of the rapid water, 
too much strain was put on the line, and it 
broke near the leader. Two days later a mile 
down stream the same fish—a iop2-pound rain¬ 
bow—struck again, and this time was landed. 
The spinner was still firmly fixed in his jaw, 
but only an inch or so of leader remained. It 
had been broken, twisted or chewed off close 
