Dec. 27, 1913. 
FOREST AND STREAM 
823 
is out of the question. Neither am I certain 
that it is the method for wild, tumultuous waters. 
Early during our stay in the locality, I be¬ 
came enamoured with the possibility of the pool 
below the flood gates above the mill at Idle Wild, 
known always among the fishermen I met as 
“below the dam.” There were no rocks in the 
pool, but the water had mined out great holes 
in the soft earth, the firmer material remaining 
intact and standing up from the bottom in fantas¬ 
tic shapes, a submerged miniature mountain 
range. Sometimes one would be granted a frac¬ 
tion of a second in which to study the conforma¬ 
tion of the pool, then the dancing wavelets 
would come racing down from the noisy water 
above, and the floor of the pool would be as 
effectually obscured as though a blanket had 
been thrown over the surface of the water. No 
fisherman need be told that those black up-reach¬ 
ing earth-mountains protected trout. It was not 
necessary that I should see them, though some¬ 
times during those seconds when I could see 
the bottom of the pool, I would catch glimpses 
of ghostly shapes darting frpm mountain-foot to 
mountain-foot. 
I became a monomaniac. I haunted that pool 
in all sorts of weather, and at unholy hours. And 
I caught fish. One afternoon I lay prone upon 
the grass on the open side of the pool, and by 
constant casting secured thirteen trout. It was 
a lazy way of fishing. I would cast for ten 
minutes or so, then lie back and read “As You 
Like It” until the pool was “rested,” then take 
up the rod again. I enjoyed the lazy work to 
the limit. Understand, it was necessary to keep 
out of sight, even keep the flashing of the rod 
from showing on the water. That is the sort 
of thing that appeals to me. Slyness and nicety 
of manipulation. So the days hurried into the 
weeks, the last of August had arrived, and we 
could see the end of our vacation without an 
opera glass. 
One evening I set out from the farmhouse, 
my destination being as usual the "dam-pool,” 
for so I termed the spot, without any thought 
of profanity. The day had been exceedingly hot 
and sultry. The very atmosphere seemed preg¬ 
nant with electricity. Away in the west and north 
a line of yeasty thunder-heads were poking their 
ominous noses above the dark trees mirrored 
against the evening sky. As I walked up the 
sandy road I could see that the clouds were 
slowly rising, and by the time I reached the 
dam there was an occasional flash of distant 
lightning, and I thought I could catch the mutter 
of thunder. All at once that feeling with which 
every angler is familiar, a premonition of com¬ 
ing victory, rushed over me. Bending on a bass 
fly, a royal coachman, for I wanted something 
that would make a commotion on the water that 
could be easily seen, I crept through the grass 
and out upon the little rise of clear ground close 
to the pool. Nothing could be seen of the water, 
the tall trees upon the far side completely shad¬ 
owing it, but that did not bother me, so familiar 
had I become with every current and obstruc¬ 
tion. Laying my landing-net and electric flash 
lamp where I could lay my hand upon either in 
case of need, I gave my rod that little twitch, 
so easy, and yet so difficult until acquired, which 
sent the royal coachman out upon the invisible 
water. 
I told myself just what that fly was doing. 
“Now it is dancing on the surface, now it is 
being sucked down, now the current is tossing 
it to the surface again, now it is going down 
once more, now-” “Bang—zip !” The fly was 
doing several unexpected and unconscionable 
things. Hither and yonder it dashed, now up, 
now down, fast in the lips of what I knew was 
a good fish. I was on my feet, rod in right 
hand, electric flash in my left. I am not a con¬ 
tinuous user of the automatic reel, but for night 
fishing there is nothing like it, for you can fight 
the battle with one hand, leaving the other free 
for the light, without which in a small pool, dis¬ 
aster is pretty certain to be your portion. 
Again and again the fish wound the line 
about one of those submerged mountains, but my 
intimate knowledge of the pool served me in 
good stead. I knew when to give and when to 
take line. The battle lasted possibly twenty 
minutes, perhaps longer—I have no means of 
knowing; but the fish tired at last, was ready 
for the net. Then when I laid down my flash 
light and took up the net I found I was in com¬ 
plete darkness, for unconsciously I had been 
using the lamp continuously. I felt that after 
all I was to lose out in the fight. My heart 
went down into my boots. But I had left Nature 
out of the problem; she was on my side that 
night. There came a sudden, brilliant flash of 
lightning which illuminated the pool as a thou¬ 
sand electric lights could not have done. There 
at my very feet lay my fish feebly waving its 
pectorial fins, thoroughly vanquished. With the 
next flash of lightning I gathered him in. He 
was mine. 
Long before I reached the farmhouse the 
rain was descending in torrents, while the thun¬ 
der and lightning were almost incessant. I was 
wet to the skin; yet I minded it not at all, was 
neither afraid or chill, such a glow and heat 
was there within. I found the wife and good 
friends rather exercised about me; the former 
lecturing me on my “foolish infatuation.” Then 
I brought in the great fish which I had left on 
the “stoop” on purpose. Two pounds and fifteen 
ounces he weighed on the farmer’s “butter steel¬ 
yards.” So will you blame me if I have him 
recorded in my notebook as “a three-pounder”? 
More About Carmody 
Pittsburgh, Pa., Dec. 19,1913. — Editor Forest 
and Stream : I have read what “Attorney Gen¬ 
eral Carmody has to say” with interest, and I 
agfee with his conclusion that the McLean law 
is invalid. But his argument is confusing. It is 
not a question of policy, nor is it a question of 
conflict of the Federal law with that of a state. 
There can be no question as to supremacy where 
a valid Federal law and a state law conflict with 
each other, as the Federal law is supreme. 
The only question at issue, therefore, is as to 
whether the McLean law is valid. Congress has 
power to make laws relating to such matters as 
are expressly mentioned in the Federal Constitu¬ 
tion, and as to no others. The only provision in 
the Constitution under which the McLean law 
could be held to be valid is that relating to the 
regulation of commerce. The question, there¬ 
fore, arises as to whether by any stretch of ima¬ 
gination the flight of migratory birds from one 
state to another can be considered as an act of 
commerce, and it is on this question alone that 
the validity of the McLean law, in so far as it re¬ 
lates to .this provision, depends. Lorna. 
Forest and Stream for Christmas 
Oxford Street, 
London, W., Dec. 13th, 1913. 
My Dear Tack: 
I have derived so much pleasure from the 
Forest and Stream that I want you also to get 
the benefit of the interesting articles and news 
this little paper contains, and I have just writ¬ 
ten to the company asking them to send you this 
paper for a year. You may consider this your 
Christmas present. I do not know of anything 
I could give you that would give you more pleas¬ 
ure for the year than you will get from reading 
the columns of this paper, and with best regards, 
and a Merry Christmas to all, believe me to be, 
yours very sincerely (Signed) R. M. 
Stories of the Maskinonge Monarch of the 
Inland Seas 
By ALEX. McD. STODDART 
ERE is a maskinonge story that has a smile 
in it. It is the custom in the Thousand 
Islands when one gets a maskinonge to 
tie one’s handkerchief to the tip of the rod, and 
in that way sail for home. Everybody knows 
that a maskinonge has been caught, and as soon 
as the signal is seen, people on shore come down 
in hundreds to see the fish. 
A. B. Boerum, of Brooklyn, in the summer 
of 1908 had been fishing for six days a week for 
four weeks for maskinonge. On the twenty-fifth 
day, just before he decided to come in, he tied 
his handkerchief, which was wet with perspira¬ 
tion, to the rod. Instantly the occupants of the 
boats within hearing distance saw the signal and 
cried: “Boerum’s got a musky at last!” 
The cry was repeated, and as the guide and 
Boerum sailed along those who knew how long 
he fished cried “Good for you!” 
More than a hundred people came down to 
the landing of Thousand Islands Park to see 
Boerum’s maskinonge. They stood waiting. 
“Joe,” he said to the guide, as he prepared 
to step on shore, “I think that handkerchief must 
be dry now.” 
* * * 
The maskinonge is a savage fellow. An an¬ 
gler poling up the North Fork of the Flambeau 
River in northern Wisconsin saw a fish nearly 
four feet long, a broad fellow, with cavernous 
jaws and lidless eyes staring unwinkingly through 
the water. 
He drove in his pole, braced the punt against 
it to hold it, picked up his rod and made a cast. 
The big spoon landed within a yard of the 
musky’s snout and spun through the water as it 
was reeled in. 
The fish did not notice it by so much of an 
extra movement of fin or tail. 
Four times he cast and nothing happened. 
The spoon, which had been a foot under the 
surface, flew into the air as if shot by a gun.. 
It described a half circle over the fisherman’s 
head and splashed into the water on the far side, 
twenty feet away. Like a black flash under the 
yellow water the muskinonge with a single pow¬ 
erful flirt of its flukes, was gone, yards down the 
slough and invisible. The man reeled in his 
spoon and looked at it. It was bent nearly dou¬ 
ble, much as if it had been laid on a rock with 
a hollow under it and hit hard with a hammer. 
It was out of action for good. 
jfc 5fC :}C 
This is Charles Dudley Warner’s prize mas¬ 
kinonge story: 
“No other part of the country originates so 
many excellent fish stories as the Sixteen Hun¬ 
dred and Ninety-two islands, and King had heard 
so many of them that he suspected there must 
be fish in these waters. That afternoon, when 
they had returned from Yananoque, he accosted 
an old fisherman who sat in his boat at the 
wharf awaiting a customer. 
“I suppose there is fishing here in the sea¬ 
son?” The man looked up but deigned no reply 
to such impertinence. 
“Could you take us where we would be likely 
to get any maskinonge? 
“‘Likely?’ asked the man. ‘What do you 
suppose I’m here for?’ 
“ ‘Beg your pardon. I'm a stranger here. I’d 
like to try my hand at a maskinonge. About how 
do they run here as to size?’ 
“ ‘Well.’ said the fisherman, relenting a little, 
‘that depends upon who takes you out. If you 
want a little sport, I can take you to it. They are 
running pretty well this season or were a week 
ago.’ 
