Forest and Stream 
Vol. LXXXII. March 7, 1914 No. 10 
The Angling Hat-Rack 
Wherein is Pointed Out the Difference Between True Angling and “Just Fishing.” The Author Writes 
Interestingly of Many Other Things Besides the Hat-Rack, Too 
By Charles Frederick Holder 
Author of “ The Game Fishes of the World, ”—“ Recreations of a Sportsman, ” Etc. 
1 CONFESS it had never occurred to me that 
joy and comfort could be added to an an¬ 
gling, forest and canoe excursion into the 
deeps by the mere addition of a hat-rack. I 
doubt if it had ever occurred to anyone. 
I have, like other lovers of outdoor life, stud¬ 
ied and poured over the commercial equipment 
books and tried to think of everything under the 
sun which would add to 
the comfort of one’s 
self or friends on the 
various trips—but a hat- 
rack? Never! Such an 
idea would seem prepos¬ 
terous. I can imagine 
some American anglers 
even swearing at the 
very suggestion. In 
fact, some anglers do 
not wear hats. 
I have the honor, due 
to my esteemed con¬ 
frere Prince d’Arenberg, 
president of the Casting 
Club of France, to be 
an honorary member of 
that distinguished or¬ 
ganization. What would 
be the effect upon a 
French angler if, when 
asked if he had every¬ 
thing and replied “yes,” 
he heard this pro¬ 
pounded, “But have you 
your hat-rack?” Our 
French angling col¬ 
leagues are very cour¬ 
teous and polite, but I 
do not believe one could be found who would 
willingly go off to the north woods, out of sight 
of everything, with a man who considered a hat- 
rack a necessary part of the fishing equipment. 
Yet I had the temerity to do this very thing. 
It came about in this way. Our host, Mr. G. 
A. Weber, had invited us to make what he called 
the Marcotte trip. The party was made up of 
Mr. Weber, Dr. St. Clair, his son and myself, 
which made a little flotilla of three canoes, Eu- 
bald, with Weber and George and Tom paddling 
for me, besides two lusty voyageurs for the doc¬ 
tor—altogether as fine a sextette of paddlers and 
guides as the north country can produce, which 
is saying a good deal. We left San Souci at 
Lac Perchaud one fine morning in September, 
our canoes and equipment having been sent ahead 
on wagons, and by noon we overtook them at 
the Shawenegan Club, over a most delightful 
country of forest, undulating hills of grain in 
green meadows, and roads lined with golden- 
rod, daisies, cornflowers and many others. 
“There is nothing between us and Hudson’s 
Bay,” said our host, and I could most believe it; 
not a contaminating breath, nothing but pure and 
delightful air that gave me a sense of buoyancy, 
life and youth. Here and there the road passed 
through little villages such as San Flore, little 
towns radiant in rich tints and colors. 
All the houses were on one street, with red and 
blue and some had more gorgeous colored doors, 
and in every window and door were dozens of 
children—the main crop here. There were chil¬ 
dren everywhere and they were most attrac¬ 
tive; the man who did not have ten or twelve 
or so was not much of a person here. 
In some of the better places there was a shrine, 
highly colored, and the cross and the various 
articles connected with the crucifixion. Every 
mile or two we would come upon them and lift 
our hats after the fashion of the country; and 
a very good fashion anywhere it is, to be re¬ 
minded of good things. 
I wanted to ask why they were placed here— 
a very foolish question—but my canoeman antici¬ 
pated me. 
“He very good for remind man what go bad.” 
I saw the point at once. These shrines over¬ 
looked some of the most 
beautiful trout lakes and 
little rivers to be found 
anywhere, and one of 
the most interesting 
stood on a gentle slope 
which led down to an 
aqua marine in the hills 
which bore a floating 
island. Suppose, just 
for the sake of the ar¬ 
gument, that you, or 1 
or anyone, had hooked 
the largest fish ever 
dreamed of in Canada, 
and that at the moment 
of success he escaped. 
There is a moment of 
dreadful silence. The 
bungler at the net 
closes his eyes expect¬ 
ant, but the angler looks 
up, the little shrine on 
the slope of the Sha¬ 
wenegan catches his eye 
and he—he says nocff- 
ing. 
In fact, he takes out 
a flask instead, and 
hands it to the para¬ 
lyzed canoeman. who presents his compliments, 
and wonders if the age of miracles has come. 
Yes, there can be no doubt of it, these shrines 
are well chosen and well adapted to an angling 
community. Of course, all anglers do not need 
them, but I am convinced, as I take my hat off 
again and still again near Lac Mongram, that 
“he is good for remind,” and the best of us need 
to be reminded, whether it is by the Angelus, the 
chimes of London and elsewhere, or the quaint 
peals of St. Denis, San Flore and the delightful 
little hamlets of children and the blue doors of 
St. Mathieu. 
We passed through St. Mathieu by Lac Bel- 
marre, making about sixteen miles across coun¬ 
try over good, flower-covered roads, up hill and 
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