Dec. 27, 1913. 
FOREST AND STREAM 
817 
“Now, That Reminds Me”--VIII 
By O. W. SMITH 
«1VT OW, that reminds me” of a morning’s 
1^1 fishing I once enjoyed 'below the “old 
mill” at Idle Wild, that romantically 
named spot on the Pine River, Wisconsin's most 
famous trout stream. • 
Strange how fondly one's memory clings to 
certain spots. Now it was just below the Idle 
Wild mill that I caught my first trout, more 
years ago than 1 care to mention, and for that 
very reason I find myself thinking of the locality 
again and again. Always when the fire burns 
low it is the weather-beaten mill mirrored against 
the rosy evening sky I see. Of course, there is 
little fishing below the old mill now; indeed, re¬ 
cent changes there make fishing out of the ques¬ 
tion — though last season I took several fine trout 
from the pool below the spill-way. However, 
that is neither here nor there, and has nothing 
to do with fishing beneath the old mill some fif¬ 
teen years ago, when the incident which I am 
about to narrate took place. The point I wished 
to make, in passing, was, usually the most pre- 
and the schoolroom never once obtruded itself. 
Rested, but not satisfied; I wanted a few trout 
to take home, Let those say, who will, that the 
true angler does not fish for fish, in the final 
analysis we all do. 
All too soon the last morning dawned, my 
short leave of absence was drawing to a close, 
and' in a few brief hours the team that was to 
take me back to the dusty schoolroom would 
arrive. The thought caused me to leap out of 
the broad farmer bed which had been conducive 
to a good night’s rest; and away down stream 
before my good host had built the kitchen fire, 
or there was much hint of light in the eastern 
sky, I paused below the dam, but a few short 
casts convinced me that my luck had not changed 
over night; so I followed down the race to the 
mill and below it, thinking to make my way to 
the deep pools above the Dane’s Meadow. Be¬ 
low the mill I paused and peered underneath 
where it was dark, dank and noisome. The black, 
water-soaked timbers, here and there, festooned 
water-soaked timbers. Saying various uncompli¬ 
mentary things to myself, I tugged upon the line 
until it parted, bent on a new hook, and cast once 
more. There was no waiting for ghosts that 
time. Instantly the heck was seized and I was 
fast in the first good fish of the trip. The fight 
was short, exciting and disastrous. Of course, I 
had no show, the odds were all in the fish’s favor. 
But my fighting blood was up. I determined to 
throw the next fish out upon the sawdust bank 
on which I stood, or break my rod in the at¬ 
tempt. 
The red sun was up, and his rays were be¬ 
ginning to lighten the gloom beneath the mill. 
I could see the menacing posts and timbers, a 
formidable network above and in the white water. 
Another hook, the third, baited with a great 
“garden hackle,” was sent just where the water 
sucked down under a timber. The response was 
instant, a vicious tug. Recking not of rod or 
consequences, I used all my strength. The rod 
bent almost double; I expected to see it break, 
cious pool is the one from which we took our first 
trout; and though the passing years may intro¬ 
duce us to greater waters and larger fish, it is 
the theatre of our first success about which our 
minds most lovingly cling, and toward which 
our feet most often bend in after years, if not 
for fish, then for memory’s sweet sake. 
Well, on the occasion in question, sick from 
long confinement in the schoolroom, I ran up 
to Idlewild for a week-end fish in May, the 
month of all months for the trout fisher; every¬ 
where new plant-life was springing into exist¬ 
ence, early spring flowers were crowding the 
stream’s banks, and birds were singing as they 
only sing in springtime. But from a fisherman’s 
viewpoint, the trip was a failure. The trout were 
not biting. I followed the river from the mill 
down through the “Dane’s Meadow,” across the 
“Deaf Man’s property,” where one fished at peril 
of arrest, clean down to the “Preserve.” As I 
have said, the results were nil, or worse than 
nil, being a few fingerlings, which were promptly 
returned to the water. Of course, I was rested, 
Photographs by the Author 
with green clinging moss, stretched away until 
lost in the denser darkness. Had there been 
sufficient light, 1 knew that at the farther end 
I would have made out the planking of the flume 
itself, shooting out many a silvery stream from 
gaping crack and knot-hole; as it was I could 
hear the hiss of pent up water as it darted out 
into the gloom. 
Prompted by some vagrant fancy, I removed 
the cast of flies, leader and all; bent on a simple 
hook, which I baited with an agle worm, and 
sent the primitive lure, such as I had used in 
earliest boyhood, out into the moil of water that 
fretted away beneath the timbers. I smiled to 
myself at the absurdity of the thing, nevertheless 
did not reel in my line in a hurry. It was an 
uncanny place, and I expected every moment 
to see a grisly ghost come stalking out of the 
gloom, so when there came a sudden, sharp tug 
upon the line, and my rod sprang into a danger¬ 
ous curve, I jumped as though my ghost had 
suddenly become a reality. Of course I struck, 
fiercely, vehemently, and was fast in one of the 
but it didn’t, and a splendid ten-inch sparkler 
let go his hold of the water and lay kicking in 
the sawdust. I cannot begin to express the satis¬ 
faction with which I wiped away the clinging 
bits of wood and slipped the fish into my empty 
creel. 
I had little expectation of getting another 
bite when I sent my freshly baited hook back 
into the water, just where it sucked down under 
the timber nearest me, so imagine my surprise 
when it was as quickly and hungrily grabbed as 
before. That fish I fought for some little time, 
it was heavy, and I thought of my rod; but Fate 
was kind, and in due time I brought him to net. 
Yes, I even used my landing-net, so thoroughly 
conquered was he of the brilliant spots. Again 
T cast, and again I was instantly fast in a good 
fish, larger than the second; and in due time he, 
too, lay quiescent in my creel. Three fish—a 
half pound, a pound, and a pound and a quarter. 
T gloated exceedingly over my good fortune, pass¬ 
ing even the credulity of a fisherman. It seemed 
impossible that another such fish could be wait- 
