June 14, 1913 
FOREST AND STREAM 
747 
Keeping an Appointment 
By LILLIAN S. LOVELAND 
And again the current bearing against the line 
heads him in toward the breakers to avoid which 
he boldly heads up the beach once more. Per¬ 
haps this time he will stop abreast of this mys¬ 
terious strain and roll and swirl a bit on the 
surface. Now a strong pull at the right instant 
will swing his head toward the beach and more 
pumping can be done. This time it is possible 
that he may be brought so near that he ex¬ 
poses his grand length to view against the green 
background of an approaching breaker as he 
turns and plows off once more toward the bar, 
and we know then that he’s a big striper or a 
big channel bass, as the case may be. 
With swelling heart and almost choking 
with excitement we make him pay dearly for 
every foot of line he takes, and if we stand our 
ground, he again begins to follow the course of 
an elongated figure 8 up and down the channel 
in the seas that sweep toward the beach. At last 
pluck and endurance must yield to thumb pres¬ 
sure and skill, and the fish is brought into the 
combing breakers. A critical stage of the battle 
is now on. Watching one’s chance he is dropped 
into the tumbling front of an incoming wave, 
and the reel is plied with all the speed at one’s 
command to keep his head toward the beach, 
the rodman stepping backward if necessary to 
accomplish this. 
If he fails to ground on the first wave he 
must be allowed to go back with as much pres¬ 
sure applied as is safe in order that his head be 
kept toward the beach ready for the approach 
of the next incoming sea. 
This process is kept up until he either 
grounds or the angler is able to lay a heavy 
hand upon him and press him to the sand until 
the wave has receded, v/hen the forefinger, which 
with the beach fisherman takes the place of the 
gaff, can be slipped into a safe pocket under 
his jaw and thus he is dragged to safety—by 
the man who hooked and fought him—for, the 
last article in the Creed provides that no assist¬ 
ance must be lent to the angler. Of course this 
article cannot apply to rocky coasts where a 
gaffer is a necessity, but on the sands the man 
who cannot beach his fish unaided should fore¬ 
go him. 
The succeeding steps are taking the weight, 
accepting congratulations and possibly the re¬ 
turn of the fish to the sea. If he happens to 
be in the forty or sixty-pound class, the lucky 
captor may live in a seventh heaven of delight 
indefinitely, for surely the taking of one of these 
fish is reward enough for many blank days. 
Believe me, a reformed black bass fisherman, 
an ex-devotee of the Rangeleys and the Adiron- 
dacks; when I say that I have taken enough of 
small fish, and am happy to subscribe to the 
creed of the surf angler and to wait with in¬ 
difference a week or a month or a year for one 
big one. 
New York City, May 30 .—Editor Forest 
and Streatn: Your excellent issue of May 24 
was very interesting. Please send me 150 copies. 
I want to mail them to my friends. I think 
your paper is improving every week. 
Morrison Rogers. 
Peopee soon learn to shun the man who 
never offers them anything but advice—even a 
ragged man can tell you how to get rich.— 
Florida Times-Union. 
W HILE spending our vacation at Pelican 
Lake, one of the larger lakes in North¬ 
ern Minnesota, my husband, my father 
and myself delighted in going off together on 
voyages of exploration. 
We would start off about an hour after din¬ 
ner, and the men would row two or three miles 
to another shore of the lake, then we would all 
get out and walk over the sandy roads or on 
pine needle carpeted wood paths, or we would 
strike blindly through the underbrush and tim¬ 
ber just to see where we would come out, or 
what other lake or farmhouse, postoffice or school 
house we might discover. 
One afternoon we landed on the east shore 
where we had heard a new summer cottage was 
KEEPING THE APPOINTMENT. 
being built. We found the cottage already com¬ 
pleted and Captain and Mrs. Eberly, the owners, 
nicely settled. 
After sitting on the porch awhile, my father 
said; “They tell me there is another little lake 
■—Loutche’s or Loughey’s Lake near here. How 
do you get to it?” 
“Loughey’s Lake! Oh, yes,” Captain Eberly 
answered. “It’s only a quarter of a mile. I cut 
a path through the woods yesterday. I have 
an errand over there. Wait a minute, and I 
will walk over with you.” 
I noticed that he was carrying his fishing 
reel and frog box, but he did not mention fish¬ 
ing. We went single file through a fern-bordered 
woodsy path, just 573 paces, the captain said, 
until we came to a beautiful little lake nestling 
among the pine-clad hills. 
“See that stump there?” said the captain, 
pointing to a water-soaked log not twenty feet 
from shore. “I have an" appointment with a bass 
who lives there.” 
“Appointment with a bass, how’s that?” my 
husband questioned. 
“I was over yesterday with a spoon hook, 
and he came up and looked at it, but he didn’t 
like it. I promised him I would come back to¬ 
day and feed him some frogs.” 
“You don’t suppose he is waiting there yet 
for you, do you?” T asked. 
“Well, I am sure that’s where the old fellow 
lives, and I think he will keep the appointment. 
I hope he is hungry.” 
“Good luck to you,” we told him, as we 
went on according to his directions to find the 
postoffice of Ossipee. 
We followed the lake shore to the opposite 
side, delighting in the lavender carpet of wild 
flowers, something like violets, which grew so 
thickly in the sand until we came to an old boat 
and a path through the thick timber toward the 
northeast. The path led through the woods, then 
along the split rail fence around a field past 
laden hazelnut bushes, ripe blackberries and red 
raspberries, blueberries and wintergreen, which 
according to our custom we nibbled at as we 
walked. Then we reached the public highway, 
a well-traveled sandy road, and in a few minutes 
came to a large, rambling farmhouse. It was 
entirely covered with tar paper on the outside. 
The original house was a log cabin, and the 
other rooms were built of the cheapest sheathing. 
The postoffice of Ossipee consisted of a 
little closet-like room about four by six in the 
corner of the main living room. The postmaster 
was not in, but his wife was. 
"I would like ten postal cards,” my father 
said. 
“I dunno as we hev that many; I’ll see,” 
said she, pulling out a drawer of a case which 
was marked “Corticelli Sewing Silk.” “There’s 
five—six—seven. That’s all he’s got.” 
Father handed her a dime, but she couldn’t 
make change. “Well, here. I’ll take six,” he said; 
"I have a nickel and a penny. Have you any 
fresh eggs to sell?” 
“I let most of ’em go yesterday, but I got 
some more this morning. You kin hev a dozen.” 
“All right. How much are they?” 
“Fifteen cents.” We had been paying thirty 
in camp. 
“That’s too cheap,” father told her; “here’s 
a quarter.” 
“No, sir; I hain’t going to take more than 
other people pay me. Fifteen cents is all I get 
anywheres. 
They finally compromised on twenty cents. 
We inquired about the abandoned cabin across 
the road, and she told us it used to be a store, 
but it didn’t pay. In the distance we saw a 
white school house, and she proudly explained 
that it was “het” with a furnace; that the dis¬ 
trict received State aid—$75 a year, and they 
bought $10 worth of books every year for the 
library—and that all the people in the district 
could have the books to read. We learned later 
that there were only eight children in the whole 
school, and that they had to go all the way from 
one to three miles; that school started the first 
of September and continued until Christmas; 
then when the thermometer was forty and fifty 
below zero, school was closed. It began again 
the first of March and lasted until the first of 
July. 
We had gone out of the farm yard and 
were walking down the road when we heard 
Mrs. Postmaster calling after us. That extra 
five cents for the eggs was evidently still bother¬ 
ing her, for before we knew it she had gathered 
