752 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Dec. 14, 19x2 
little rocky island with fore feet elevated on a 
central rock, with head poised in a listening 
attitude, and did not discover me for some 
minutes. He had large branching antlers with 
eight or nine points on each side, which would 
weigh not less than 200 pounds, and the picture 
was very pleasing until, by sight or smell, he 
was aware of my presence, when he bounded 
through the shallow water to shore, and into 
the woods. 
Another pretty view which I recall was of 
a doe with two yearling fawns as they stood to¬ 
gether in the middle of a shallow river, listen¬ 
ing to the bark of a hound which was on their 
trail, until I started them off and stopped the 
dog. At another time my guide and myself, de¬ 
scending a river in a boat as we entered a small 
lake, saw a group of five deer most gracefully 
posed on a point of land, but a few rods dis¬ 
tant, and the wood background and the water 
foreground made it a beautiful picture. 
Alas, the deer and other game have rapidly 
disappeared since those days. Pre-season shoot¬ 
ing, running by dogs, and water-killing, as well 
as wanton work, such as all true sportsmen de¬ 
cry, has been the cause. In both Emmet and 
Cheboygan counties this season dogs were heard 
running deer day after day, although it is pos¬ 
sible without the knowledge of the owner, and 
many rifle shots were heard before the season 
was open. Deer will not long remain in any 
locality where they are thus harassed. 
The trout season was enjoyed by many and 
the catch from Maple River was very good. 
This stream is one of the best, and is kept well 
stocked. Altogether I had a pleasant vacation, 
notwithstanding the vagaries of the weather, and 
the views inclosed will, I hope, give you some 
idea of life in the Northern woods. 
THE TOP RAIL. 
Mique Webb was so serious a fisherman that 
it never entered his mind that anyone could joke 
on so important a subject. A few days ago, how¬ 
ever, his illusions were shattered by a friend of 
his just returned from a fishing trip in Florida. 
This chap told Mique so many and weird tales 
about sting ray, whip ray, jewfish and other finny 
occupants of Southern waters theretofore un¬ 
heard of on the Cumberland River, whence came 
Mique, that he grew more bewildered with each 
variety. Finally said he: “Mique, have you ever 
heard of the whiffle-tit?” and the following dia¬ 
logue ensued: 
“The whiffle-tit! What in the name of Sam 
Hill is that?” 
“It’s a fish,” he said, “the greatest in the 
water. The whiffle-tit is it. You want to catch 
one whiffle and then you can receive your diploma 
and become an expert at the fishing game.” 
“What do you bait with?” asked Mique. 
“No bait for whiffle-tits. Just keep quiet 
now and I will tell you all about him. Follow 
me closely, for to catch a whiffle is some stunt. 
No bait, no hook, no line, no sinker, no cork, 
no pole, no fishing tackle of any kind that you 
are familiar with.” 
“Yes.” 
“Just a boat and an auger.” 
“What!” 
“Keep quiet. An auger and a boat. Row 
a boat out from shore about five hundred yards, 
then anchor. Be very quiet. Then bore a hole 
down into the water—” 
“But, but, but!” exclaimed Mique. 
“No but about it. Then bore a hole down 
into the water and—” 
“You mean you bore a hole into the boat?” 
“No, I said the water. It would be just like 
you to bore the hole into the boat. When you 
are in forty feet of water, the last thing you 
want to do is to bore a hole into your boat, un¬ 
less you are a good swimmer, and then it is not 
advisable, as you can’t catch a whiffle by swim¬ 
ming after him.” 
“I see the point, or hole. Go on.” 
“Then you bore a hole into the water after 
leaning out as far as you can from the side of 
the boat. After boring the hole, withdraw the 
auger and place it carefully in the boat without 
making any noise. Then lean out over the hole 
you have bored and whistle, “Dixie,” “Hot Time,” 
or some other “rag” you may know, and if you 
are a good whistler you may soon see a whiffle 
start up the cylinder. Be very careful until he 
is well up. Now, run your hand down under 
the water and circle the hole with your fingers. 
When you have them well below the whiffle, 
squeeze up on the cylinder, thus preventing him 
from crawfishing. Then take your left hand and 
lift him into the boat. It is very simple and— 
“Mique, I have seen fish, caught fish, 
eaten fish and smelt fish until I have 
had a sufficiency. They are there, old boy, al¬ 
right, alright. I have caught them with bait, 
without bait, and had them chase me off the 
beach when I showed them a hand full of sar¬ 
dines. I have taken the naked hook and slashed 
it about in the water and had the good fortune 
to hook them in the tail or elsewhere, they were 
so thick. You are bound to admit that there 
were some fish where I have been, and that they 
were biting some. But I want to say to you, in 
all sincerity, that suckers are biting in Tennessee 
just as well or better. You swallowed all my 
tackle and would have swallowed me if I hadn't 
let out a giggle. I did not have this happen to 
me in Florida.” 
* * * 
At a big social dinner in a town in the West 
of Ireland on one occasion a number of sport¬ 
ing gentlemen indulged rather freely in the pleas¬ 
ures of the table—both solid and fluid—particu¬ 
larly the latter. One “jolly dog” was so full 
of good nature on his way home, about 3 a. m., 
that on seeing a fishing tackle shop with a show 
sign of a fishing rod, line and fish hanging out 
of the shop window, he immediately pulled vigor¬ 
ously at the bell, and brought the old hot-tem¬ 
pered proprietor out of his bed to see what was 
the matter. His informant coolly told him that 
he merely wished to tell him there zvas a fish on 
his hook! It would not need any vivid power 
of imagination to picture the feelings of the old 
fishing tackle man. 
Grizzly King. 
Tod’s Letter to his Father. 
Dear Dad : 
I suppose if some author were writing this 
he would christen it “The Limit,” or “Going 
Some,” or “Two-Twenty,” or some such title. 
Not being an author, I will do no christening. 
Green was to hunt Di the first day and I 
was to hunt him the second, or rather on Satur¬ 
day afternoon. We had made the arrangements. 
I had shells, complete rig, and an anxious spirit. 
Saturday morning, Green called me up and said 
Di had run on to a porcupine and run his nose 
full of quills. Would I use him? I said I would 
look at him first. So I got the old fellow, and 
after looking him over, decided that despite the 
way his nose was swollen and despite the way 
he looked after the first day's trip that he would 
still be some good. So I said I would take him, 
and with him limping “at heel” went back to 
the office. 
At quarter of twelve I cut for the train, and 
at 1 o’clock Cathryn (who met me at the train) 
and I stepped into the woods. We had dined 
at the Junction. We were warm and cosy, and 
money could not have bought from us our after¬ 
noon. 
It had snowed a little the night before and 
as we got into the woods, snow began to fly 
again, little round balls that stung when they 
hit our faces and that burned when they got 
into our eyes. We were going up an old log 
road, and as we went up, the snow came thicker 
and harder until we were working into what 
was almost a blizzard. 
We reached the top and with our backs to 
the wind started down a branch road. I was 
first, Cathryn next, and behind her lagged Di, a 
picture of a much abused dog. 
All at once Cathryn said “Look at Di.” I 
turned and saw the old fellow frozen to a point, 
and looking as trim as a two-year-old. You 
know how long it took me to get behind him, 
and then at the word he went in. But no bird 
rose and so I followed him. It was one of those 
old familiar marches of his—a point, a few steps 
ahead, then freeze; a cast to right or left, find¬ 
ing the trail, two or three steps, and another 
point. My knees were getting weak from the 
strain when old Di’s head swung and stretched 
out a little sideways in one of his points, and 
then he very carefully turned to see where I 
was, and I knew the first bird to get up lay 
ahead and a little to the right. I gave him the 
word, and he took about two steps, when whir! 
and a bird rose to my right, tried to light in an 
oak, failed and turned, quartering over me to 
the right. A right quartering shot in oak brush 
eight feet high with your bird going down hill 
is no easy shot. But when the old pump cracked 
I saw the first bird for 1912 stop in mid air and 
come down. There are sports, I suppose, that 
are greater to other men, or jewels or wine 
or food may count, but to men who have lived 
and been raised as we have been, I think the thing 
in sport that lifts 11s highest must be that picture 
over a gun barrel—a mounting grouse cut down. 
Old Di returned with the bird and I went 
back and got Cathryn, and we hunted around for 
a while in the brush, but found no more birds. 
So back we started for our old road. Di was 
ahead, and suddenly he turned and stiffened, 
pointing a bird between himself and me. I gave 
him the word and he flushed the second bird, 
