402 
FOREST AND STREAM 
opening day and those succeeding would be the 
pure fine spring weather essential to comfort and 
likely conditions. And they were! 
Shall I tell you how I got hold of worms for 
bait for that opening day? While Jim toiled and 
sweated in his office, I dug a whole half day in 
a manure pile in quest of the crawling and 
squirming ones. I dug, delved, and pitched till 
I was up to my shoulders; and in the course of 
events I extracted from the protected mother 
earth enough worms for the performance we had 
in view. And there were quite a number, too. 
It was two days after opening. Jim was on 
time and I had the horse ready for the ride. We 
chose light rods for the work, and while we had 
leaders along, we did not attach them to the 
lines, preferring to fish without them. We had 
an early start in the morning, getting under way 
just at daybreak. I knew exactly where we were 
to begin on that stream. I had it all fixed fine. 
There were pastures and wild territory between 
and the stream was quite over-grown. Thanks 
to this fact, let us say, the fish had escaped ap¬ 
prehension. It goes without the word that over¬ 
grown, thicketed streams are essential to the 
propagation and preservation of the trout. Open 
streams where there is easy fishing, without 
much chance for the trout to hide, soon work 
destruction on their numbers. 
We housed the horse at the appointed place 
and with eager hearts and restless hands set out 
for the stream. I hardly need to tell that it was 
there, and was flowing just as darkly, just as 
glittering and scintillating in places as ever in 
its history. We surveyed our kingdom and fixed 
up. I could see from the fish-hungry look in the 
eyes of Piscator that there was no hope for the 
trout. 
“I am not saying,” said Jim, with a firmness of 
voice that told of a consistent consideration of 
our possibilities and probabilities, “but that there 
are trout here. But why isn’t there? Look at 
that pool there. Come on—sneak in here so that 
nobody sees yuh. You understand, of course. If 
there should be trout here, you and I are the only 
ones who know about it, and we will come again, 
and yet again.” 
Jim cast in his baited hook with a practiced 
hand, in perfect concealment. With the gentle 
wash of the water it slipped from sight into that 
first inviting, suggestive pool. With a twitch of 
the rod the worm, which was squirming on the 
hook in a most unhumanitarian manner, was al¬ 
lowed to look more than ever like a thing of de¬ 
sirable proportions. But there did not seem to 
be any action there. 
“I tell you what to do,” confided Jim, still in 
concealment between the bushes, still letting his 
worm be in the hole below, which was shaded by 
over-hanging branches. “You go about a block 
further down and try it. If I have success, I will 
whistle. If you have success, you whistle” 
This seemed all right, and I went my way. 
The Golden-Eye is an overgrown and sur¬ 
rounded stream. But I found a fine place, and 
the pool was a dandy. I dropped in my baited 
hook (in the unsportsmanlike process called bait¬ 
fishing) and let the water carry it into the pool. 
It went in all right and I gradually drew it along, 
repeating the movement many times. Of a sud¬ 
den there was a twitch that sent a magnetic thrill 
through the arm. The blood rushed into my 
head. My heart stood still; then bang! I had set 
my hook. I drew from the pool a seven-inch 
trout, and gaining possession of it, I withdrew 
and sat down in utter amazement to view it. 
There it was—a brook trout in every sense of the 
word. That rare, skin-enveloped, firm body of a 
salvelinus fontinalis; a shimmering, glorious 
brook trout; the dearest fish that ever fanned 
water. I let whang with a shrill whistle between 
my teeth that caused an earthquake. Phlegmatic 
Jim thundered in, puffing like a self-regulating 
wheel scraper. I showed him salvelinus fonti¬ 
nalis and he said, with remarkable emphasis, that 
he would be blowed, but I told him he would be 
bloated—after he had eaten his headwear. 
“Well, bless my heart!” breathed Jim, getting 
possession of his wits. “Then there really are 
trout here. Never would I have thought it. 
What’s the use of going to Wisconsin when you 
can fish right at home?” 
I took three trout out of that hole. Jim, work¬ 
ing down the stream after me in the unfished 
pools, caught four, being a painstaking and elab¬ 
orate angler. I noted the conditions along the 
stream carefully and thoughtfully, being of an 
observant nature. Here, quite remote from peo¬ 
ple, ran a perfect stream. Undoubtedly no one 
knew of its wonderful possessions. For the 
trout, being such shy and close-hiding creatures, 
never will allow themselves to be revealed to 
penetrating eyes that will disclose them and rav¬ 
age them in their haunts. It was ideal. Low- 
lying land, interspersed with meadow brush, and 
bankings of rank wild grasses, the concealment 
was intricate as well as necessary. 
We worked down the stream from the bridge, 
and reached the destination I had set by ten 
o’clock. Here we took stock of our joint cap¬ 
tures, and found that we had ten and thirteen 
trout respectively. Some were small and some as 
large as eight and nine inches in length, which 
was pretty good, everything taken into considera¬ 
tion. Over our pipes we discussed it and then we 
discussed it over again. 
We saw no one, and we did not care much for 
an intrusion. We had only to think of this 
creek, somewhere in the neighborhood of ten 
miles in length, to know that ideal conditions 
were presented to us, and unlimited opportuni¬ 
ties at that. We fished carefully and thoroughly, 
and at two by the clock in the afternoon ceased 
our pleasant piscatorial labors with thirty trout 
in our possession, which was as far as we cared 
or dared to go. 
If Jim was not elated, I would like to know a 
word that would do justice ot his supreme feel¬ 
ing of content. 
“I remember how I got my first one,” he told 
me, when we were in the buggy driving home¬ 
ward after our day abroad. “You remember I 
had let my wormed hook lay in the hole, when 
you left me, going further down. Well, sir, I 
did not in the least think I had one on, but I was 
going draw her in and let her drift down 
again with the water, when I noticed I had 
something on. I struck, and struck good and 
hard, and the little fellow shot for the edge of 
the creek. He got entangled there between some 
roots and I had to get right down in and un¬ 
fasten it. But I made good and sure I had the 
trout first, I can tell you. I spoiled my chances 
there, of course, but in the next hole I found 
them, and caught them, too. Say, this is the best 
luck I have had in a long time.” 
Breezy recollections, indeed; and not one inci¬ 
dent of that pleasant day but that it was dis¬ 
cussed and re-discussed for all there was in it. 
The happiness of that one day among all others, 
is insurmountable. The Golden-Eye is still there, 
and after I have fished the Mesabi region with 
Burhans this spring I will take her in. 
I must not forget to mention the hat episode. 
Just as a joke, of course, I handed a derby to 
Jim to consume in the fulfillment of his wager. 
I thought sure he would hand it back, but the 
poor ol’ cuss grabs it and bites a hole right on 
top of it. It wasn’t much good, but then of 
course I could have used it for a flower pot or a 
wren’s nest. For it was an old style derby 
brought over on the Mayflower some years ago. 
STARTED, NOT SHOT. 
Cherry Hill, Branford, Ct., March 15, 1914. 
Editor Forest and Stream : 
Dear Sir: In the notice that I sent you re¬ 
garding the number of woodcock that visit us 
here during their autumn flights, you have quoted 
me as saying that I shot from six to twenty every 
day that I hunted. If you have my note please 
read it again. Think it will read started, not shot. 
I have killed twenty woodcock in a day, but not 
in many years. I am a twenty bore 2 ) 4 -% load 
man and have been for years, in fact threw away 
my twelve bore gun fifteen years ago. It was a 
murderous old pot iron, and, good a gun as it was, 
made more cripples in a season than I have seen 
in all the years since. 
I think any man can learn to shoot with a 
twenty bore, but let him use three-quarters of an 
ounce of shot. There is more good sport in bring¬ 
ing down one bird with a small load than killing 
a hundred with a cannon. Can any one tell me 
the virtue of sending six or seven hundred shot 
after a bird when three or four hundred will 
achieve the same result? 
I love my two little guns; they are a part of 
my mind and body; we have a great deal in com¬ 
mon together, and if they could talk you could 
hear some very pleasant memories of the past. 
I am quite jealous of my reputation as a sports¬ 
man, want it to be sweet and clean like your dear 
old magazine which I have read for thirty years 
or more.—JOHN WILKINSON NICHOLS. 
“PLAY THE GAME ON THE LEVEL.” 
Addressing the Pittsfield (Mass.) Anglers’ 
Club at their annual banquet recently, Commis¬ 
sioner William C. Adams, of Boston, urged the 
members of the club to “play the game on the 
level,” and he pointed out the difficulties which 
have to be met by the commission. Dr. George 
W. Field presented the idea of bringing certain 
insect-destroying birds from other countries to 
protect trees and garden crops. He told of the 
difficulties of artificial propagation of ruffed 
grouse, and of the easy propagation of pheas¬ 
ants, pointing out the value of this bird to farm¬ 
ers in destroying some of their most inimical in¬ 
sects and worms. 
Congressman Allen T. Treadway, of Stock- 
bridge, who spoke of the work of the national 
bureau of fisheries, advised the members to try to 
obtain a Federal fish station in Berkshire county; 
not to try to get small-mouthed bass from the 
bureau, as this fish is hard to raise artificially, and 
therefore the supply is limited. He suggested that 
the club ask for rainbow trout. 
