THE FISHERWOMAN’s CATCH. 
cried the "Fisherwoman,” “these bugs are eating 
me up.” 
“They aint all they ought ter be, is they?” 
said Rube, smiling peacefully, and shaking sev¬ 
eral dozen from the labyrinths of his beard. 
“Well, I guess we’re about ready,” he added. 
A moment later the boat slipped down 
stream, passed through the mouth of the inlet 
and glided out on the lake. 
Years ago Burnt Mountain Lake was con¬ 
sidered one of the most beautiful sheets of 
water to be found anywhere within a certain 
rtistrict of the North Woods. It was an ideal 
hunting, camping and fishing ground, an Ar¬ 
cadian spot, unscarred, uninhabited, undisturbed, 
with a splendid growth of timber stretching for 
miles around. But the day came when into 
these virgin acres a destroyer set his teeth, 
the ruthless fire monster, the most lamentable 
element against which the Adirondacks have to 
contend. A cone-shaped mountain standing at 
the southeast end of the lake was seared from 
base to summit till nothing remained save a 
pinnacle of naked pink rock; likewise a great 
section on the north shore was burned away, 
a desolated land of charred stumps being all 
that was left to face the water from this side. 
The ravages of flame, however, stopped here 
and the other shores escaped destruction. 
Nowadays, under the kind hand of naaire, a 
profuse bloom of fire-weed helps to cover the 
unsightly ruins; here and there a living tree 
with its foliage brightens the mass of tumbled 
wreckage, and so it comes about that in spite 
of cruel scars, the scenery around the lake re¬ 
tains much of its former beauty, and all of its 
old wildness and solitude. 
The sight of the broad sweeping waters and 
spring budding shores as they emerged from 
the mouth of the inlet, was good to the eyes 
of the three anglers. Little waves dashed 
boisterously against the boat’s side and the 
brisk wind that hurried across the lake brought 
with it a delicate aroma of shad-berry and wild 
cherry blossoms. Altogether it was an ideal 
morning to tempt grisly lake trout from their 
haunts, for these indeed, waxing large and 
plentiful, and often attaining leviathan weight, 
were the kings of Burnt Mountain Lake. 
For a while the anglers coasted along the 
north shore, under the shadow of the burnt 
BE.^ 
country. On the devastated slopes that reached 
above them the air literally rang with bird 
songs, and from among the debris of blasted 
trees, tumbled in appalling disorder to the brink 
of the lake, rose the piping of white-throats, 
the delicate minstrelly of warblers, the gurgling 
of tree swallows, and frequently the copious 
melody of a purple finch. 
When they had trolled along here for per¬ 
haps a mile. Rube headed the boat out into the 
lake, and as they came within the radius of a 
shoal, the “Fisherwoman” hooked and landed 
a fair sized lake trout. Shortly afterward “Beau 
Brummel” followed suit, and brought in a 
golden-brown colleague to companion the first 
catch. With a silent smile, Rube shuffled the 
two under a moist covering of ferns, gazed 
approvingly on his rickety net, and sent the 
boat forward again with slow, even strokes. 
Morning fell, and toward noon, with coats 
unbuttoned, the anglers basked in the benevo¬ 
lent warmth of the midday sun. High over the 
lake a big gull swept noiselessly to and fro, and 
at times a ripple of wild laughter was carried 
down on the breeze from a pair of loons bob¬ 
bing like black specks on the squally waters 
near shore. 
As one lake trout after another was brought 
to net, “Beau Brummel” and the “Fisher¬ 
woman” smiled on each other and blessed the 
ways of nature. About two o’clock, however, 
the “Fisherwoman” began to show signs of 
restlessness. 
“I’m getting hungry. Isn’t it about time 
for lunch?” She gazed toward shore and then 
at Rube. 
“Well, I guess it is,” said he, after a 
moment’s pause, “but I just want ter take one 
more turn around the shoal before we go in.” 
“Whoa, back up. I’m on bottom,” “Beau 
Brummel” interrupted, commencing to reel in 
hastily. Then his expression changed. “It’s a 
fish!” he cried suddenly. “No it isn’t—yes it 
is. I’ve got hold of a whale!” 
So the battle commenced. At first the big 
trout bored steadily and held to bottom like a 
rock. Then, slowly, foot by foot, his captor 
was able to take in line and turn his nose to¬ 
ward the surface. 
“Don't give him no slack, don’t give him no 
slack!” cautioned Rube. 
n BRUMMEL FOLLOWED SUIT. 
Scarcely had the words left his mouth when 
the reel gave a screech, “Beau Brummel” 
gasped, and away went the fish again. 
“Sugar! but he means business,” Rube 
whispered under his beard, at the same time 
letting the boat settle back quietly in the 
wind. 
■‘He’s breaking my arm,” said “Beau Brum¬ 
mel” as the weight on the line held without re¬ 
laxing. A moment later, Iiowever, the old 
laker apparently gave up the tug of war, and let 
himself be drawn up toward daylight. Inch by 
inch the line filled the reel. Then the “Fisher¬ 
woman’’ leaned forward excitedly. 
“There he is!” she cried. “I see him—a 
regular shark!” 
Out flopped an enormous tail, a sleek 
glistening body; then once again the trout sunk 
like a stone. 
The next time he came up it was easy to 
see that the fight was nearly done. He rolled 
over close beside the boat, and his great bulk 
lay limp and inert on the surface of the water. 
“Beau Brummel” drew him nearer, still nearer, 
until Rube seized the net and slipped it under 
him. Here the history of the net commences 
in earnest. 
Down went the big trout’s head into the 
meshes, and Rube with a superhuman effort 
tried tO' heave him into the boat. But the fish 
was too heavy, and the three-quarters of his 
person hanging out of the net threatened to pull 
his head out, too. “Beau Brummel’’ ground 
his teeth. 
“The gang’s caught,” he said. 
Rube made a queer noise in his throat, and 
just then the trout slipped back in the water, 
pulling the mesh inside out. 
“For goodness sake, hurry up and get him 
into the boat!” cried the “Fisherwoman,” on 
whom the strain was taking effect. 
With a rapid movement Rube shifted the 
net to his left hand, while with his right he 
seized the laker by the back of the neck. 
Desperately he tried to lift him from the water 
and fling him into the boat, but it was no use. 
Then suddenly, the old gladiator came to life. 
With a plunge like a wild horse he tore him¬ 
self free; the gang holding his jaw m the net 
snapped like a piece of rotten twine, and with 
{Continued on page 31 .) 
