502 
FOREST AND STREAM 
the great fish made a bolt for liberty. Slowly 
fighting his way, the great trout was forced 
shoreward and by great effort was lifted head out 
of water for an instant. As soon, however, as 
he saw his captor, off he went like a flash. The 
poor, cheap “cornstalk split” waited at the top 
joint and sagged. There was a tremendous 
splash, and what would have been probably the 
talk of the state was gone forever. 
Then came from the angler the usual death¬ 
bed repentance. This time it was: “Never again, 
believe me, will I fish for trout with a line tied to 
a pole.” 
This true story reminds me of how I once 
landed a “whopper” from that very same stream, 
thirty years ago or more, and carried home an 
eight-pound creel full of trout, the largest aver¬ 
age catch I ever made. They went to a camp full 
of folks from Port Henry on old Sand Pond or 
Silver Lake. I remember how they filled a ten- 
quart pan held by my mother, who was evidently 
proud of my youthful skill with the rod, although 
filled with misgivings caused by old man Bul¬ 
lard’s report that there were lots of bears around 
Wolf Pond swamp and Boreas Pond and his 
sage remark: “’Taint safe fer dat boy go hof by 
hisself.” 
I read to-day in a New Jersey trout article, pub¬ 
lished in a New York daily, that brook trout do 
not bite during the middle of the day—only in 
the early morning. That forenoon I fished for 
two hours, dodging little showers—veritable del¬ 
uges—lasting a few minutes, then out would 
come the sun, and every big fish in that creek 
would bite in the blazing glare. Probably New 
Jersey fish are differently constituted from their 
bold brothers of the north. I must have sought 
shelter in caves and under protecting trees 
twenty times that day. 
Another angler’s delight is the discovery that 
some old meadow brook has been lately returned 
to the trout column, through careful and persist¬ 
ent stocking by the Commission. I recall such a 
stream, which when I was a lad, was said to be 
without fish of any kind. Indeed, tradition had it 
that some poacher years before had “limed” it 
and wiped out every trout there. I accidentally 
discovered some trout still there, and it was a 
pretty slow afternoon when I could not land 
enough for supper in half an hour, after the 
day’s work on the old farm. 
One evening on my way home from a bout 
with the bull-pouts, eels and sheephead in Miller 
Marsh, Lake Champlain, I crossed a certain rivu¬ 
let and found the water like ice that August day. 
“Chubs is all there is there, mister,” remarked a 
smart boy who happened along. I heard what he 
said, but mindful of the trout signals—cold water 
and spearmint—I just threw in a baited hook. 
Up stream from beneath fragrant raspberry 
bushes darted a huge shadow. It opened such a 
mouth that I was almost unnerved at the pres¬ 
ence of that game fish. Well, the big red-sided 
brook trout missed the hook some way, and I 
could not get another rise. There was a great 
string of coarser fish lying beside me, but I would 
have given every one for a chance to hook that 
brook-king. 
Could any angler forget that invitation to a 
contest of skill and cunning? I know that I 
cherished the desire to return there for several 
days. The thoughts of that great trout kept me 
awake many hours at night. I was absent-minded 
at times, and was joked for “thinkin’ about some 
gal.” One thing consoled me; that boy did not 
see my introduction to the fish. 
On the last day of fishing, I remember, I was 
down in the old horse-pasture again. A big, 
yellow grasshopper, blown by the southwest wind, 
struck me in the face, and I hooked it over a large 
English fly made of coarse, brown feathers. The 
“double bait” struck water and was instantly 
sucked in by a tremendous fish that I took for a 
big pickerel that had run up from the lake after 
shiners. I do not suppose the creature had more 
than ten feet of water for a run, and I know that 
the little brook was not more than three feet deep 
by two feet wide, and yet she put up a splendid 
fight for her inches. I laid that old ash rod flat 
on the ground, stripped off a few yards of line 
from the reel and played Mrs. Trout right there 
by hand, keeping her forcibly away from some 
old roots, but taking great care not to let her see 
me and thus get frightened. Finally I cornered 
her in the hole and netted my beauty with an old 
felt hat. This was my record brook trout. She 
was in splendid condition, although full of eggs, 
fully quarter of a pound of which I used for a 
fish omelet, cooked like shad roe. What was her 
weight? Tell me, you knowing brothers of the 
rod. She was just one foot and six inches long, 
and was a very thick and plump fish. 
After gazing upon my captive for several min¬ 
utes and carefully preparing her for the table, I 
resumed work right close at hand, and inside of 
the next ten minutes caught without the slightest 
trouble four male trout of fifteen, fourteen and 
nine inches in that order, using the same kind of 
bait, but landing them with the rod. 
One spring a farmer friend, who used to re¬ 
ceive trout fingerlings from the hatchery, secretly 
put about fifty into an old deserted iron ore mine 
shaft “just for fun,” as he confided to a field 
hand, with the remark that the iron from the 
rocks had probably killed them all, as he had 
“never seen hide nor hair of ’em since.” Well, 
before three o’clock next morning I was up on a 
level spot among the bushes overlooking that un¬ 
canny trout hole, and a “punky smoke” was send¬ 
ing its cedar-bark fragrance into the still air, 
keeping mosquitoes and gnats at a respectful dis¬ 
tance. 
Feeling sure that my old friend had employed 
the customary “garden hackle,” I decided upon 
“white grubs” that I dug among the strawberry 
vines in the old garden. From where I sat up 
there, so nice and comfortable, it was fully forty 
feet to the surface of the pit, which was all of 
thirty feet deep and then slanted off under the 
overhanging mountain to meet a long tunnel to 
the old vein three hundred feet distant. The whole 
“business” was full of the coldest spring water. 
I sat up there by my firelet, my legs dangling 
comfortably over “that terrible black hole” by the 
roadside which has long been the bane of all 
local women folks passing by in carriages. The 
reel let off a tremendous quantity of fine line, and 
the insect was slowly lowered to the bottom of the 
hole by the use of this “derrick.” 
There was no surface rise, as one might have 
expected, but when the bait reached terra firma 
there was instant business for me up there, and 
I played a fine adult brook trout, albeit a “miner,” 
that weighed a little more than one pound. Then 
working the windlass I reeled him flapping and 
twisting clear up to my own level and to the tip 
of the rod, which I then dragged straight in 
toward me and secured my game. This rectangu¬ 
lar and somewhat novel method of angling was 
continued with success until ten fish had been 
basketed, and I felt that was enough to take out 
of my “preserve,” which was fully one and one- 
half miles from any known trout water, or even 
a brook of any kind. 
I was back at the old place before the hands 
had finished milking. They “opined,” of course, 
that I had been “daown tew the brook troutin’ on 
it,” wanting to know “what time on earth did ye 
git up, anyhow?” and surmised that I must have 
“slep’ in the woods all night.” 
Now, these trout, reared in that old deserted 
mine with its iron-rusted side walls, were almost 
black in coloration, in conformity with their sin¬ 
gular abode. Their bellies, however, were of the 
most brilliant red-gold shade, and the spots came 
out beautifully. Their flesh was deep red and 
they were in splendid condition. Many a mess of 
trout I quarried from that big fish-mine of mine 
during that summer. The next year, after laying 
aside the city’s toil for a time, I again climbed the 
cliff and sat under the big basswood. I tried faith¬ 
fully, but not a fish took my bait. Then I noticed 
where some stray hunter had taken a tip from my 
old smudge fires carelessly left on view. My 
fish were gone. 
Later in the season I saw in the pool a trout 
of great size. He seemed lonely. His sides were 
as red as the early autumn leaves that covered the 
surface. A black and white sketch of my remark¬ 
able trout pond, so full of suggestions for others 
like it, adorns the wall of my bungalow den in the 
Adirondacks. And now the aquatic birds have 
brought the seeds and roots of the cat-tail and 
pond-lily to my pool, and this season I shall again 
try for the solitary red monarch there in that 
uncanny place. Until he is taken, young trout 
may be devoured by him, as food is apparently 
scarce there at times, unless he takes kindly to 
the little frogs that cluster about the margin of 
that basin in the forest. 
Strange to say, this very same “True” of the 
big trout adventure lately told me that he, many 
years ago, brought up a little pail of speckled 
trout from the nearest brook on his "bike” and 
put them in there. He had lately felt “sore,” he 
added, to learn that I had “fished ’em all out” 
without telling him. 
Imagine his surprise when I told him that I 
had been only taking out what I had put in there. 
We then put our heads together and decided that 
his few brook trout planted ahead of mine had 
grown up and had devoured most of mine, for the 
reason that what I caught were all of a size. We 
think that the old big one now there is one of his 
original tin-pail lot from down by the lake. 
I have always maintained that these numerous 
old mines full of cold spring water could be 
utilized for trout breeding purposes. It may be 
that others have held a similar view on this sub- 
j ect. 
Want Longer Deer Season. 
The game committee of the Massachusetts legislature 
has just reported favorably upon a bill which has not 
yet been numbered, giving the farmer or land-owner the 
right to shoot deer at any time upon his own property 
and upon his neighbor’s property, when permission has 
been obtained, when the deer are doing damage or are 
liable to do damage. The committee will also probably 
report that the present open season of one week be con¬ 
tinued rather than have a closed season or a longer open 
season. The bill has the support of the Hampden County 
Improvement League, which urges hunters and farmers 
to assist in the attempt at obtaining a longer season. 
