NOV. 22 , 1913 . 
FOREST AND STREAM 
651 
After See had made many casts without re¬ 
sult, the boat came to the opening where the big 
fellow had been hooked the night before. 
‘‘Think I’ll catch your pickerel,” I said jok¬ 
ingly, picking up my rod. One cast was suf¬ 
ficient. The pork had hardly struck and started 
on its return journey, when with a rush like a 
torpedo boat in action a large pickerel took hold 
and got full benefit of both hooks, and after 
the usual struggle was brought to net. It 
up. It was a ragged break, one strand of wire 
at a time. The rocks worn smooth by a swift 
current were round, slippery, moss-covered, and 
there was no possible way the wire could have 
been cut by them. How was it done? Did the 
trout chew the thing in two himself? Who can 
tell? 
A somewhat similar incident happened at 
Koshkonong in Wisconsin. While I was a guest 
at the Black Hawk Club, a 
cold storm came up, not much 
rain, but plenty of blustering 
wind and some snow flurries, 
making it bad weather for 
fishing. 
It was tiresome sitting 
around, and regardless of con¬ 
ditions after dinner with See 
Williams for company, I took 
a light skiff and shoved out to 
try my luck, taking a gun and 
duck caller, leaving See with 
rod and line to catch anything 
he could, from bull pout to 
bass. 
There were many stranger 
ducks flying around prospect¬ 
ing, the veterans to see if feed¬ 
ing grounds were as they used 
to be, and the youngsters view¬ 
ing lake and marsh to find 
if this Koshkonong country 
would prove all their elders 
had quacked it up to be. Oc¬ 
casionally a foolish yearling 
would answer the caller and 
come to see who was talking, 
then winter winds and Wis¬ 
consin rice and celery beds in¬ 
terested him no more. 
All the while See kept 
casting and casting; that is, 
except when he was clearing 
his line of snarls. Silently and 
patiently he kept at it. At last 
he spoke: “Say, old man,” he 
ventured, “I’ve had a dozen 
little strikes while you’ve been 
fooling with those ducks, but 
I can’t hook him.” 
“Reel in and show what 
you are using,” I responded. 
He did, and held up a sin¬ 
gle hook baited with a long 
pork wiggler. The fish was 
striking short, just fooling; 
didn’t want that twisting, kick¬ 
ing pair of legs at all. It was 
easy to substitute a tandem for 
that one hook and on his next 
cast See hooked a fish. 
“Gee he’s a big one!” he 
shouted. “Twenty pounds, if 
he’s an ounce,” almost going 
overboard as the pickerel made 
a quick lunge. Then recover¬ 
ing his balance, “What do you 
know about it? I’ve lost 
him!” 
So he had. Using no lead¬ 
er the fish had bitten off the 
line and escaped. 
All that evening See kept 
talking about his big fish, the 
twenty-pounder he lost, and 
seemed to enjoy telling the 
story almost as much as if it 
had been one of triumph 
backed up by the pickerel it¬ 
self, probably bearing in mind, 
“It is better to have loved and lost than never to 
have loved at all.” 
Next morning it still seemed too raw and 
windy for fishing and I started out gun in hand 
after ducks. See was game enough to ask if 
he could go along with his rod and reel. “It 
might warm up so, fish would do something,” 
he remarked. This seemed reasonable and 
caused me to go back to the club house for 
tackle. 
A PRETTY BAG 
