812 
FOREST AND STREAM 
June 28, 1913 
Fishin’ With ’er Jonah 
By MIQUE WEBB 
{Concluded 'from last week.) 
large number of Indian dialects. He was half 
brother to the man sitting at his left, who is 
Kaw-baw-gam, the hereditary chief of the Chip- 
pewas. The old chief died in extreme poverty 
several years ago at the age of 103. Kaw-baw- 
gam was a tall, intelligent-looking Indian, quite 
a remarkable type of the original owner of the 
soil, and in his little cabin on Presque Isle, a 
short distance from the city of Marquette, was 
much sought after and lionized by tourists and 
those interested in viewing the relics of a vanish¬ 
ing race. Kaw-baw-gam was not averse to get¬ 
ting out his Indian chief's costume—feathers, 
leggins, how, arrows and all, and attiring him¬ 
self in these cheap glories, posing for kodak 
artists in search of novel subjects, from whom 
he accepted small gifts of cash, tobacco or what¬ 
ever happened to be a “circulating medium.” 
"Very rarely did the old chief indulge in the fire 
water which had wrecked his race. 
We Have Seen It. 
Chicago, Ill., June 12. — Editor Forest and 
Stream: I have just had the pleasure of reading 
your editorial on The Amateur Farmer in which 
you say, “A bird warbles in the trees near by. 
He knows it is a thrush by the red throat and 
the gray breast streaked with brown.” I wish 
to tread softly, but what thrush does have a “red 
throat and a gray breast streaked with brown?” 
The inspiration the early riser gets from 
the birds’ concerts in the early morning hours 
of the spring is worth the price of shortened 
slumber. We get the most enjoyment from sev¬ 
eral pairs of brown thrashers nesting around 
our house, one pair having builded their nest 
in a thorn tree which rubs the corner of the 
veranda. During the early morning hours one 
of them takes his position on the topmost branch 
of an oak tree and gives a classical concert 
which is startling in its brilliancy. 
Last summer I saw a thrasher engaging a 
snake on our lawn. The thrasher had a nest 
in a small thicket, and to all appearances the 
snake was being driven away from it by the 
attacks of the bird, which consisted of short 
rushes and a savage prick whenever the snake 
would uncoil and start to move. The brave bird 
won. and the snake, which was a small one, 
made his escape. Rupert Starpird. 
In changing address, the old as well as the 
new should be given. 
T he outlet was not more than four feet 
across. With one foot on the bar and 
the other stretched toward the bank, I 
could almost straddle it. The water in it was 
very shallow, but swift. Thinking to save the 
life of my minnow on the hook, I dropped him 
into the outlet. I dropped my pole on the sand 
and noticed as I turned away that the water 
was not deep enough to hide the stiff gut snood 
which was sticking above the surface. 
I retraced my steps and took my seat on 
the root. My pipe gave out and I grew drowsy 
and fell asleep. While asleep I dreamed that 
1 w’as in a desert. I was awfully thirsty and 
hungry. A cloud came up and blotted out the 
sun. I welcomed it. I looked up at it. It 
was a curious cloud. It semed to be boiling. I 
watched it closely. Yes, it was boiling. What 
was that I saw in it? A speck of brilliant green 
and then of red, and then little things like grains 
of corn. It was phenomenal. What was it? As 
1 watched it I grew more and more in need of 
food. Suddenly it began to rain. A drop or 
two hit me. I looked at one of them closely, 
and being very thirsty I sucked the cloth where 
it struck. Wonders! It was soup—vegetable 
soup. I felt something hard in my pocket. Run¬ 
ning my hand therein I pulled out a fork. I 
woke up. Surely, this was a day of hard luck. 
Caught in the desert—starving and thirsting, 
raining soup—and me with a fork in my pocket. 
But I was aw’ake. It was all a dream. Yet 
my hunger was just as much awake as when I 
was asleep. I looked around and there was the 
lunch. But I must wait for my friend. It 
would not be the act of a gentleman to eat his 
half of a lunch, while his friend was away. I 
must wait a reasonable time, anyway. I tried 
to wait, but the stomach was insistent. It was 
torment. I stood it as long as I could, then 
broke the seal of the paper around it. I broke 
it slowly, hoping my friend would reappear while 
1 was in the act. The lunch was open. He did 
not come. I cut the box of sardines. They 
looked, so good in the glistening oil. I placed 
one on a cracker and before I knew it was 
greedily devouring it. I would not eat over half 
of the lunch. I promised this to myself when 
I found I had really started and could not 
easily stop. In a short time my half of the 
sardines were on the inside of me. I tried the 
cheese. It was dry eating in comparison to the 
sardines. I choked on it. Had to go to the 
creek for water. On returning my throat began 
to hurt me. I would eat one more sardine. The 
oil would relieve the pain. The stomach de¬ 
manded more, and I kept on nibbling on them 
until all were gone. How would I explain this 
to my friend? I was mortified over my hoggish¬ 
ness. I had an argument with myself. I changed 
I to we and we had it up and down. It was 
like a convention. Conscience, brain, stomach, 
eyes and nearly all the other organs of the body 
had something to say. After all what would we 
do about it? Cunning and crafty came up with 
their sneaking, devising advice. I listened to 
them and we fixed up a scheme. We would 
take the sardine can and bury it and say noth¬ 
ing about sardines. We would let it appear as 
if we had not brought any sardines with us. 
So I took the empty can down to the creek, 
secured a sharp stick, dug a hole in the sand 
and was about to consign it to mother earth 
when I noticed my minnow bucket was extend¬ 
ing up and out of the water several inches. I 
set the can down and ran to it. I opened the 
lid to find that about half of my fine minnows 
were dead. Some of them were dead—very 
dead — so dead that their stomachs were dis¬ 
tended. Some were just dead, while others were 
gasping their last gasp. I took all of the dead, 
very dead, sick and dying out of the bucket and 
laid them out on a smooth stone. Then I took 
the balance back to the creek and resubmerged 
them. 1 had to go much further out to get to 
water deep enough to hide the bucket. The 
cattle in their irrigating process were causing 
the creek to fall rapidly. I then went back to 
finish burying the can and happened to notice 
the minnows on the rock. Suddenly I had an 
idea. 
Old crafty put me wise. The sardines and 
the minnows looked very much alike. All the 
minnows needed to make them duplicates of 
the sardines was oil. I had the oil in the can. 
This is about as near as I ever came to old 
John D. I “ ’iled” the minnows. When I got 
through they looked so good I was tempted to 
try one. But here a doubt arose in my mind. 
Were the heads cut off of the sardines or not? 
I had a dozen in me, but could not answer the 
question. I cut the head off of one. There was 
a little blood. I decided that heads on was best. 
I tried to pack them back into the box. They 
wouldn’t fit. Sardines are compressed into the 
box. I couldn’t compress the minnows. I com¬ 
pressed by putting only six where a dozen had 
been before. This worked, and I carried them 
back to the lunch paper and fixed all as it was 
before. 
Conscience was giving me a little^ trouble by 
this time, and like a murderer I wanted to get 
away from the scene of my crime. I feared 
the return of my friend, and I would be unable 
to keep my face straight. I decided I would get 
my tackle and minnows and go up the creek. I 
went back to where I had left my pole. I picked 
it up and began reeling in. The hook was hung 
to something solid. I caught the line and gave 
it a hard pull. It would not give way under 
the strain. The water being shallow, I decided 
I would run my hand down and release the 
hook. My hand went down to the snood and 
on. It came in contact with something smooth 
and slick, and the next second my index finger 
was in a vise. I jerked my hand violently out 
of the water and out of the vise. My finger was 
cut and bleeding. The pain of the bite, for this 
was what it was, I was sure, was enough to 
make me shake my finger violently and screw up 
my face. I was very much alarmed and my 
alarm increased as time went by. I raced back 
