VOL 
17 
Forest 
. LXXXII. 
and Stream 
April 25, 1914 No. 
Chum and I Go Afishing 
Descriptive of a Successful Day on a Wisconsin Trout Stream 
O NCE or twice a year I tell Chum that I am 
done with fishing and am going to give 
away my rods and reels; she used to be¬ 
lieve me, now she only grins when I make the 
assertion. Once upon a time I did give away my 
whole outfit, rod, reel, lines, hooks—everything. 
Reformed you know. Told some of my 
boon companions that I 
“wasn’t going to squan¬ 
der any more precious 
time on a trout stream.” 
How did it work? Well 
Sir, before the next sea¬ 
son opened I was poss¬ 
essed of a bran new out¬ 
fit, complete in every de¬ 
tail. It was rather hu¬ 
miliating, but I couldn’t 
help it. If, as a certain 
theological inquisitor 
roughly asserts, “it’s a sin 
to spend God-given time 
in such a frivolous, in¬ 
consequential occupa¬ 
tion,” then I fear I am 
foreordained to be a sin¬ 
ner to the end of time. 
When the South wind 
blows softly I begin to 
get uneasy; and when 
the first V shaped lines 
of wild geese go honking 
Northward, I know that 
soon the lakes and 
streams will be loosed 
from their icy fetters—and I begin to prepare for 
the fray. Chum catches fire more slowly, but by 
the time the meadowlarks, bluebirds and robins 
are calling gladly from every field and hedgerow, 
she too has succumbed to the urge of the spring¬ 
time and is as wild as I. Last spring, when the 
season opened, snow yet lay deep upon the 
ground; and “the day was cold, and dark, and 
dreary.” Chum’s courage failed her at the last 
moment, so I went alone. It was a unique experi¬ 
ence. In spite of the snow and cold I caught a 
fair basket of trout; but there were no swelling 
buds, no singing birds, no life; even the trout 
fought silently, deep in the water. I realized 
anew, that, “It is not all of fishing to catch fish.” 
That night, when I slumped my way through the 
wet snow back to the barn where I had left my 
By O. W. Smith. 
‘Photograph by the Author 
horse, I resolved that I would not go fishing 
again ’till the weather changed. 
Gradually the snow disappeared, but there was 
no change in the weather; the sky was as cold and 
gray as in December, and the constant northwest 
wind was raw and penetrating. The long days 
dragged themselves by at a snail-pace, and we 
counted them as they passed with an impatience 
born of the old, old spring-fret. Some one has 
said that, “All things come to him who waits,” 
and so it proved in our case; though the waiting 
was heart-breaking. At last there came a day 
when the soft south-wind caressed the willow- 
cats, and they arched their fuzzy backs and softly 
purred in response. “You don’t believe it?” (Oh 
you poor agnostic you! You will be telling me 
yet that I can’t hear old Ocean heave and moan 
when I hold a sea-shell to my throbbing ear). 
The birds, quick to respond to the subtile change, 
were wild with joy even before the sun smiled 
warmly upon the awakening world. That morn¬ 
ing, long before my alarm clock had jangled its 
metallic message, I was awakened by a robin 
shouting from the branches of an oak tree near 
my bedroom window, “Kill him, cure him, give 
him physic !” 
“I don’t need ‘physic’ you old humbug!” I 
roared, springing out of bed, “I need a mess of 
trout.” 
“What’s the matter?” sleepily asked Chum 
from the depths of the bed clothes. 
“Matter”, I repeat¬ 
ed, “matter, don’t you 
hear Robin Redbreast 
telling all about it? 
“There is a day in the 
lives of men”, con¬ 
tinued I, misquoting 
Shakespeare and parad¬ 
ing about the room half 
dressed. “There is a 
day in the lives of men, 
which, taken at its flood, 
leads on to trout. We 
hold these truths to be 
self-evident:—That all 
men are created equal; 
that they are endowed 
by their Creator with cer¬ 
tain unalienable rights; 
that among these are 
life, liberty, and the pur¬ 
suit of trout. That to 
secure these—” 
“For Heaven’s sake 
stop,” begged the partner 
of my piscatorial joys, 
“if you don’t the neigh¬ 
bors will think that you 
have gone clean daft. Remember what Mrs. 
Grundy said about your lack of dignity.” 
“Mrs. Grundy be—”, I hesitated for the right 
word, “blessed”, I concluded properly. 
“That was not the word you had in mind when 
you started that sentence”, laughed Chum. 
“Never mind what I had in my mind”, I re¬ 
torted, “but hurry up and dress so that we may 
get on the road.” And I plunged down stairs 
three steps - at a time, regardless of life and limb. 
There are as many kinds of mornings in April 
as there are days in the month, and that was a 
perfect morning: if the making of it had been 
left to me I could not have done a better job. To 
have remained at home would have been crimi¬ 
nal. I am afraid that we slighted our morning 
work. I know that several important letters were 
If You Could Do That. 
537 
