442 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Large Mouth Bass Within the Shadow of New York City 
Who is There Who Can Read This Story and Still Say There is no Romance in Fishing? 
T HAT interesting article in the March 21 is¬ 
sue of Forest and Stream, by Mr. Robert 
Page Lincoln, about the large mouth black 
bass, brings to mind a few experiences I have 
enjoyed with that same gallant gentleman in a 
blithe little lake hardly a stone’s throw from New 
York City limits. 
The Grassy Sprain runs merrily into this sheet 
of water, with two or three other miniature rills 
which come bubbling down from the historic old 
hills of Westchester. It winds between these hills 
for over two miles in the most irregular, dis¬ 
torted course a modest little lake ever assumed, 
with an amazing diversity of shore and feature. 
High granite cliffs plunge into its shining face, 
sharp sandy points throw their noses far out into 
its bosom as if trying to grasp the other shore, 
and low marshy stretches are sprinkled in be¬ 
tween, where water grasses grow in rank pro¬ 
fusion and clumps of lily pads spread. 
In these soft, boggy places where the shore 
slides gradually into the water, the bass were 
prone to find their feeding ground, especially for 
early dejeuner and late supper, and here in the 
shallows schools of juicy minnows would dodge 
in and out among the weeds and grasses, mor¬ 
tally averse to serving Mr. Bass in lieu of coffee 
and rolls. If you strolled slowly along the bank 
and watched where the water lapped the edge 
some fifty feet ahead, with eye strained and 
keen, you could often see that erect, spiny dorsal 
cutting the surface less than a foot from dry 
land, in not three inches of depth. But you will 
not touch noses with the stranger as a morning 
greeting, for take one more step, and a swirling 
commotion muddies the water and he cuts out 
into the lake, leaving a wake like a high-powered 
naphtha. 
Those lazy musketeers who preferred to loll on 
the warm sand, so that they need not even wrig¬ 
gle a fin to keep their poise, were the most diffi¬ 
cult fish to catch. Scores of times have I crawled 
like a snail, through mud and mire and yet, only 
to have them dash away the moment my rod be¬ 
gan to glitter in its gyrations. Their power of 
vision is marvelous, they have eyes in their tails, 
and like some flies, can see in all directions. But 
when lurking beneath the lily pads, I could cir¬ 
cumvent them and many a brilliant fray has start¬ 
led those quiet shores. 
Seignior Micropterous loves a various diet, and 
often for dessert his dainty palate craves the 
winged tit-bits that go skimming along the sur¬ 
face. In late June and July I have seen hundreds 
of large buff flies darting about the lake, in action 
the counterpart of the swift-flying dragon fly, 
probably the young of that species, and with a 
brown hackle, which closely resembled them, I 
could frequently fool those crafty hunters in 
their aqueous realm. The lily pads grew mostly 
in separate clusters, forming a perfect cover for 
the waiting fish, and close under the pads they 
would hover in the shadow, a single bass to al¬ 
most every cluster. 
Throw a long line and drop your number four 
By Herbert Janes. 
hackle or Wickham's Fancy two feet beyond the 
edge of the leaves, then draw it jerkily along the 
surface past them, and if the quarry lies facing 
from you, almost invariably there will be a sud¬ 
den boil and dash. Your line is taut, so you need 
not strike too vigorously, and that quick, vicious 
snap will halt the line like a sunken log. Then 
beware. Race forward beyond the lily pads, for 
his first mad rush is apt to be toward their stems 
unless you head him into clear water. And then 
if you have a five-ounce rod and suitable tackle, 
those two pounds of piscatorial energy will give 
you ten minutes of pure delight and struggle. 
He will bore and bore into the soft bottom, and 
you can’t stop him; he will run straight out into 
the lake and make your reel buzz hotly, and fifty 
feet from shore will break through the surface 
and dance a remarkable tango on his tail that 
makes your heart thump anxiously. Truly they 
are powerful and gamey fighters. Of course, 
they will not leap clear up into the sunshine in 
that dazzling arch that makes the glory of their 
cousin’s flight, but their strange antics while in 
that caudal jig are delicious to behold. 
One afternoon I witnessed a dire catastrophe 
that his lordship of the lily pads wreaked upon 
two amorous denizens of the air. Seated upon a 
sandy bank I was watching the swift flights of 
some devil's darning-needles as they chased each 
other over the calm face of the lake, when one 
of them alighted on a lily pad in front of me. 
Suddenly his lady-love came swinging along and 
joined him at their tryst. The sunlight sparkled 
on their opalescent wings as they lingered in fond 
daliance on their floating Gretna Green. Bill¬ 
ing and cooing, as all the world was billing and 
cooing that June day, I doubt not many were 
the rapt and fervid whispers her eager ears em¬ 
braced in love’s young dream. 
Little they thought of that dark Nemesis be¬ 
neath the lily pad, his red, carnal eyes glaring at 
their innocent intrusion. Three moons had come 
and gone since Iago had bid his love farewell 
and shamelessly forsaken his tiny progeny in 
their gravelly foundling asylum. Divorced, alone, 
this sour and testy bachelor could not brook the 
shock of tender reminiscences dug out of the 
past and flouted over his very nose by those 
brazen sprites with glittering wings. Soft noth¬ 
ings buzzed down the lily stalk to his irate ma¬ 
jesty as Paul and Virginia murmured the irre¬ 
pressible longings of young love and aspiration. 
In a towering rage Iago struck. A volcano 
seethed beneath the lily pad, and a shower of 
spray shot into the air. 
Alas! Poor Paul and Virginia, thrown violently 
from your verdant isle, and hurled splashing and 
sprawling upon the water! 
And here again man’s vaunted superiority 
blazed forth, for in a minute crestfallen Paul 
righted himself into his natural element, glanced 
pityingly at his erstwhile love, and beating those 
manly wings, again the Erdgeist surged into his 
ardent blood and off he flew. 
Farewell, Virginia! Her dainty wings were 
wrenched and broken, her maiden faith and trust 
debauched, and there she lay faintly beating on 
the quiet lake, helpless and distraught. The gen¬ 
tle breeze caught tenderly her mutilated body 
and drove her down the sheen, and as she sailed 
away upon her damp winding sheet, who doubts 
that her last wistful gaze searched into the golden 
sky? But Sir Launcelot came not. 
Iago had no wish to devour those hapless lov¬ 
ers, but his spleen was great, and punish them 
he did most viciously. I tried my best to catch 
that murderous Spaniard, but the crafty knight 
had doubtless seen me, and no lure would tempt 
him forth. 
It was on that same day, when Paul and Vir¬ 
ginia ran amuck, that I passed through a trying 
ordeal. It was late, the ardor of the chase had 
cooled, and I stood loitering on the end of a 
sharp point of pure shingle, perfunctorily throw¬ 
ing my fly into the violet mirror, though little 
heeding its play or action, for the water dropped 
clear and deep from the bank, and the fly was 
generally futile in such places. 
A strike unexpectedly stopped my rod, and I 
found that I was fast in a fish. It took but a 
moment to bring the little fellow in, and I saw 
that he was hooked in the upper jaw, and as I 
ascertained later, measured nine and a half 
inches. Now I plead guilty to a supposed inde¬ 
fensible cruelty, though I doubt if he suffered 
(Continued on page 460.) 
