Aug. 3, 1912 
FOREST AND STREAM 
141 
such a distance, and because my rod was such 
a light affair—weighed only three and one-half 
ounces—I lost many large fish, but enough were 
coming my way to keep me in a good humor in 
spite of losses. 
“The heat was terrible and yet the trout rose 
readily to ’hoppers. Again and again I rigged 
up a cast, but no matter what selection of flies 
I used, the trout would not so much as look at 
them; they wanted only grasshoppers, and can 
you much blame me when I tell you that I 
yielded to their whim? Of course there are 
anglers who would not have used bait, even 
grasshoppers, but I am not of that ilk. I use 
bait when flies fail to attract, though I use the 
same character of tackle for one as the other. 
You may be surprised that I found ’hoppers a 
successful bait during the heat of a mid-summer 
day, but often and in various streams have I 
found it so. Seemingly there is some connec¬ 
tion between August heat and their habit of 
feeding on ’hoppers. 
“The hot hours slipped by, and I, reeking with 
Hohokus, N. J., July 29 .— Editor Forest and 
Stream: I am a cousin of Whirling Dun, who 
asked a question a few weeks ago about a yel¬ 
low fly and has had several rises from your 
correspondents since, showing that it was a 
pretty good fly whether a caddis or otherwise. 
My cousin, Whirling, like the rest of our family, 
has always been most modest and retiring, and 
I was rather surprised to see him “rush into 
print” so boldly. The only thing that might be 
considered ostentatious about us is pride in our 
family name. It is probably known to all your 
readers that we come from the old Epliemeridce 
family, celebrated as far back as the prehistoric 
ages. 
The one great drawback to my happiness 
in life has been a bad stomach, for which there 
seems to be no cure. The result is naturally a 
somewhat grouchy disposition, which tempts me 
at times to join in when there are any bricks 
flying through the air. 
Contrary to my usual custom, however, I 
now take up my pen with pacific intent, and 
with no other purpose than to speak a word in 
favor of certain scribes accused recently in your 
columns by Mr. Bisbee of “hysterical babbling” 
when writing of the manifold charms of the 
dry-fly. Can it be that in Mr. Bisbee I recog¬ 
nize a fellow sufferer, whose stomach gives him 
but little peace and tends to make of him a 
pessimist? 
Fortunately, from my standpoint, I am one 
of those who were initiated into the mys¬ 
teries of the dry-fly many years ago, and this 
lure has become an old story with me. Per¬ 
haps it is this fact alone that kept me from 
“getting a grouch” when, a year or two ago, 
dry-fly fishing began to receive recognition in 
our sporting publications. In fact, instead of 
feeling pain, I said “Bully!” 
Let Mr. Bisbee look over his files of the 
perspiration and unmindful alike of time and 
heat, as well as forgetful of wife and dinner, 
fished on. My basket was heavy when a line 
of thunder heads in the west informed me that 
a storm, long hoped and prayed for, was gath¬ 
ering. Perhaps the approaching storm had some¬ 
thing to do with the fishes’ unexpected hunger, 
for sometimes they feed just before a storm. 
The clouds gathered fast, and I paused by a 
spring to dress and prepare my fish, then hur¬ 
ried down through the woods, ran across the 
lower pasture, sprinted up the road and reached 
the house just as the storm broke. 
“I found the family all assembled on the wide 
porch, rejoicing over the heavy downpour, my 
wife somewhat anxious as to my whereabouts; 
Mr. A. smiling easily with an ‘I told you so’ 
expression upon his fine old face. 
“I called for a dish-pan and dumped out be¬ 
fore his astonished gaze thirty-seven as fine 
brook trout as ever were stolen from a little 
stream. ‘There, gol dura ye,’ I exclaimed, ‘now 
eat ’em.’ ” 
outdoor publications for the past ten years or 
more. He will notice a wonderful sameness in 
the “trout stories.” I do not refer to the writ¬ 
ings of our delightful Theodore Gordon, or to 
tales like the fine yarn written a few months 
ago by Lou Darling about his first trout caught 
in the Gunnison River. My arrow is aimed at 
what might be called the vast output of angling 
inaninity, always the same thing told over and 
over again, generally stupid and without point, 
and often written by those .who could by no 
possible stretch of the imagination be considered 
expert, up-to-date anglers. For instance, take 
the old yarn, told a hundred times or more, of 
the man who, accompanied by wife, son, daugh¬ 
ter, maid, puppy dog and pussy cat. starts out 
in the morning for a fine day on the cunning 
little trout stream. As soon as we opened up 
the magazine and saw the general landscape of 
the story spread out before us, we knew just 
what was going to happen. It was a ten to one 
shot that the day would be spent casting in¬ 
effectually various flies of impossible sizes and 
hues, but that a glorious triumph would come 
as the evening shadows were falling and an 
enticing bait of some kind was cast deftly into 
the favorite pool. Always the same old pool, 
the same old trout, the same old lure. Then, 
taking up another publication, we started to read 
of an angler’s paradise, only to curse softly (?) 
when we discovered that, in this God’s own 
country for fly-fishing, the expectant trout were 
lured to their doom by means of spoons and 
even hand lines. 
Fine stuff, that, Mr. Bisbee, “for improving 
American angling conditions,” eh? 
Even nowadays, if we pick up a recent copy 
of an up-to-date outdoor magazine, we do not 
have to look far to find a ‘ trouting” story, in 
which the writer’s choice of lures consists of 
flies, spoons, worms and minnows. Thank 
heaven that his space was used up, or some¬ 
thing else happened, before he got to the dyna¬ 
mite! For if those fellows who apparently have 
no choice of lures simply must have a creelful 
of trout, why should they not use dynamite 
when all other means of capture have failed? 
I am unfortunate, indeed, in not having 
had the pleasure of seeing Mr. La Branche 
“gyrate horribly” on the tournament platform, 
as described by Mr. Bisbee. “Gyrates horribly” 
has a hideous sound, and as my indigestion has 
resulted in chronic nervousness, perhaps it is 
well that I have been spared this sight. But 
where does Mr. Bisbee find the “hysterical bab¬ 
bling” in Mr. La Branche’s writings? I know 
this gentleman only by reputation, having crossed 
his trail once or twice on the streams, but I am 
convinced that his principal trouble is not hys¬ 
teria. A friend of his once told me that some¬ 
times when this angler-writer carried his light 
around with him, he forgot to take along his 
bushel to hide it under; but that trait is far 
from hysteria—quite the contrary, as this char¬ 
acteristic often merely spells ice-cold self-assur¬ 
ance. But why should he not have his say about 
the dry-fly? There is certainly nothing harm- 
Again the Dry Fly 
“cast deftly into the favorite pool.” 
