538 
answered briefly and to the point; if my corres¬ 
pondents were offended I was not to blame; what 
business had they asking for an “immediate re¬ 
ply” in April anyway? My business in life is to 
keep tab on Nature. Correspondents may go to 
Jericho. I had rather offend a correspondent than 
miss the first northward bound yellow-throat. 
It was all of nine o’cock when we reached our 
stream, an inconsequential meadow brook; incon¬ 
sequential because unknown. Just above where 
we fish, the stream is spanned by a glittering iron 
bridge, a bridge used every day by hosts of fish¬ 
ermen who journey far in search of trout. If 
they only knew the golden secret of that innocent 
appearing stream! Verily a stream is not without 
honor, save in its own country. For one whole 
season we fished other and more promising ap¬ 
pearing streams and fared but illy; always pass¬ 
ing Meadow Brook—our pseudonym for the 
stream—without a second glance. Then one red 
letter day, after having followed an ideal trout 
stream for a mile through a tangle of brush, from 
its source in a little spring-fed lake to where it 
emptied into Meadow Brook, with but indiffer¬ 
ent results; then I cast a speculative hook out 
upon the quiet waters of the larger stream. In¬ 
stantly my flies were seized and I landed a fairish 
fish. In less than a quarter of an hour I landed 
seven good trout. The golden secret was ours. 
The stream has never failed us. So, naturally, 
that April morning we jointed our rods with as¬ 
surance. We were as sure of a full creel as 
though the fish already lay in our baskets. 
“What is the limit to-day?” aslced Chum, as 
she stepped cautiously into the water, for at times 
rubber boots are treacherous. 
It savored of counting chickens before they 
were hatched, but I answered with utmost confi¬ 
dence, “One basket full.” Chum’s only answer 
was a satisfied grin, for usually we take only a 
baker’s dozen. She cast her flies first where the 
current carried them almost instantly under over¬ 
hanging willows, then, catching sight of Pegasus 
she forgot her rod. Chum tells me that the 
winged steed may always be found along trout 
streams in the spring-time, but if I am to tell the 
absolute truth I must admit that I have never 
caught a glimpse of him; however, I do not doubt 
Chum’s word. Do you? Pegasus did not long 
hold her attention. A lusty trout banished her 
visions and dreams when he seized the dancing 
lures and dashed away. It was a pretty battle and 
ended with the surrender of the green and bronze 
beauty. 
“I thought”, said I, when the fish was safely 
creeled, “I thought that you were composing a 
poem a moment ago; at least the rapt expression 
of—” 
“Oh shut up!” she interrupted, “you are enough 
to provoke a saint.” Then more kindly, “Rhym¬ 
ing and catching trout can’t be practiced at the 
same moment. Now trot along, sonny, and catch 
a fish for yourself.” 
I trotted. I fished up stream, not because I 
wished to, but because Chum elected to fish down. 
Unless the stream be wide and swift it seldom 
pays for two to fish together; one is always get¬ 
ting in the other’s way, or unwittingly frighten¬ 
ing a bird that the other has caught sight of. And 
how difficult it is to get a companion to see a bird 
that has caught your eye. “There he is just above 
your head, can’t you see him? No, not there, 
FOREST AND STREAM 
your looking too high. Right below that dead limb 
that reaches out over the creek, not ten feet from 
your blessed head. Funny you can’t see it. Do 
you see that dead limb? All right, then follow it 
out from the tree about three feet, then look on 
the little branch just below. Now do you see it? 
You don’t? Well, if you had eyes instead of 
onions in your head you couldn’t help seeing it. 
Confound it, you are as blind as a fish from the 
Mammoth Cave!” So you roar and splash around 
in the water, and, if your companion is possessed 
of any spirit he answers you in kind; then the 
bird flies away and you glower at one another 
belligerently. It takes an hour's fishing or a sud¬ 
den run of luck to clear the atmosphere. No, no, 
better go alone. You will see more if alone, and, 
believe me, catch more fish. I silently made my 
way up stream, that is, I made as little noise as 
possible. Now and then I brought a goodly fish 
to creel, but it was an absolute impossibility to 
keep my mind centered upon the fishing. Every 
little while a spotted sand piper would run out 
upon a mud-bar, and, having made me a dozen 
or more old fashined courtesies, fly away with 
a shrill “Peet, weet—weet—weet.” Always fly¬ 
ing to a mud-bar ahead, and waiting for me to 
flush it, as though it enjoyed the game. Once in 
a while I heard the indescribable song of the her¬ 
mit thrush, always well back from the creek and 
beyond my ken. To most fishermen the hermit 
thrush must ever remain a voice, but such a voice! 
In all of Nature there is not another such a 
singer. More than one trout has risen to my 
flies and gone his way unscathed because of this 
wilderness voice. And when it comes to blue¬ 
birds, robins and meadowlarks what open-eyed 
fisherman is not tempted to multiply adjectives? 
Most of us think of these proletarian birds as 
lovers of old gardens and dooryards, but they 
too love the marge of trout streams in April and 
May, attracted no doubt by the abundance of food 
to be found there. How common—I beg your 
pardon, plentiful they are! To paraphrase a 
well known saying of Lincoln’s, “I think that God 
must love the common birds, he made so many of 
them.” Not to mention the song sparrow would 
be to slight the most constant companion the 
April trout fisher has: he seems to enjoy human 
companionship and his glad song rings out even 
when skies are drear and the inimical east wind 
blows. So I made my way up stream, renewing 
old acquaintances, shaking hands with the birds 
as it were. Incidentally my creel grew heavy. 
When I counted my fish I found that I had eleven, 
and I reeled in my line. Then I dressed my fish, 
and the willow cats watched to see that I did the 
job properly. Slowly I made my way back to our 
place of rendezvous, so slowly in fact that Chum 
was ahead of me and had a fire crackling merrily 
when I put in an appearance. 
“Halloo Chummie!” I shouted, for she was so 
busy with the potatoes that she did not notice my 
arrival. “How did the Red Gods serve you to¬ 
day?” 
“Fair to middlin’, as Uncle Ben used to say,” 
she replied. And from her such a reply meant a 
very successful day indeed. I was prepared to 
see a fine catch of trout, but what I saw when I 
emptied her basket fairly made me gasp with 
astonishment. Eighteen trout, the combined 
weight of which was nine pounds and two ounces. 
And Chum sat there paring tubers as demurely 
as you please, as though such catches were of or¬ 
dinary occurrence; but I thought that her hands 
trembled somewhat. 
“Chum, you—you—” and I hunted for a word 
to express my admiration, “you rascal!” And 
she knew it was a compliment. 
“Now, ’ said I, “we will cook six of the smaller 
trout and take twenty-three home’.’ And I took 
Chum s catch down to the creek to dress, for she 
draws the line at evisceration. “Makes one’s 
hands smell so fishy you know.” As I disem¬ 
bowelled the fish I laid them out on the grass side 
by side; how brilliant their colors; the dead grass 
set them off to good advantage. As I worked I 
could hear Chum singing as she busied herself 
about the camp-fire; she had done a great deed 
and she knew it, and the knowledge was intoxi¬ 
cating. At that moment had I asked her to walk 
a tight-rope she would have attempted the feat, 
for she felt that she was one of the Red Gods 
favorites. Have you never been there, Reader? 
Have you never gone ’round behind the tent, just 
to get away from the fellows, and hugged your¬ 
self in self congratulation? You just had to do 
something to relieve your feelings, and you didn’t 
want the fellows to know how “lifted” you were. 
Well, Chum was passing through the thrills of 
that experience. 
“Bring me up those six trout, the bacon is done, 
and the fat is smoking hot”, and I hastened to do 
her bidding. 
“Golly”, I said when I caught a whiff of the 
coffee, “Golly, that smells good! How long be¬ 
fore dinner?” 
“Only a few moments”, she replied, “everything 
is done but the fish, and they will take only a few 
moments. Better stop mooning and get those fish 
cleaned or dinner will wait.” 
I hastened back to my work, pausing only long 
enough to shake my fist at a meadowlark that 
called “Spring o’ the year” from the top of a 
leafless elm. The bugger! Just as though every 
corpuscle of my blood was not leaping with the 
joy of it. I began to pack the trout into the larg¬ 
est basket, and twenty filled it. 
“Chum”, I called, “come here quick.” And she 
came on the run thinking that I had cut myself. 
Look , I said, “the basket is full, and it weighs 
just thirteen pounds to the ounce”, holding it up 
suspended from my pocket scales. “And here are 
three more for you to fry for our dinner.” 
But she only pointed to the full basket, smiling 
happily, “The Limit,” said she, “we reached The 
Limit.” 
For the General Good. 
Although the twenty members of the Jefferson County 
(N. Y.) Sportsmen’s Association preferred for their own 
benefit the leaving of the date of the duck season at 
September 16, they went on record at a recent meeting 
as favoring the bill which will limit the season from 
October i to January 15. 
The changing of the dates will cut about two weeks 
off the shooting season for the local sportsmen, but as 
the bill including this provision is one that will prevent 
the late shooting of ducks in the southern states to the 
detriment of the season in the north, the members fa¬ 
vored it. The bill is designed to put the state laws in 
accord with the Federal statutes, and if passed will 
make the game laws uniform in the eight Atlantic 
states. 
The wing bone of the albatross is highly prized 
for the value when made into cigarette and cigar 
holders, and is said to be far superior to the old- 
fashioned goose bone for this purpose. 
