Sept. 21, 1912 
FOREST AND STREAM 
361 
Number One—New York. 
Wanted: Thousands of fishermen who can 
keep a secret. Assuming that you are among 
this number, I am going to invite you to mem¬ 
bership in the esoteric affinity and tell you and 
the several hundred who have written to know, 
“Where is the best fishing near New York 
city?” When a fisherman finds a real fishing 
place he keeps it dark. He will tell you about 
all sorts of good places—excepting the one he 
fishes. 
Accidentally I got an admission from an 
old and ardent piscatorial artist, one Job 
Sherman, that he “went to a place near Troy,” 
so I went on a hunt for it. I took the boat 
to Troy, train to Greenwich, thence by automo¬ 
bile to Cassayuna Lake, about a half hour’s ride 
from Greenwich. The illustration will show how 
good the catches are when the “lake is not a- 
workin’.” Izaak Walton wasn't born in any of 
the houses in that section, but he has an enthu¬ 
siastic colony of disciples who gather there year 
after year to revere his memory. It was with 
this “gang” that I “landed” and by whom I was 
shown the “good places” after being treated to 
the following verse—the password of the clan— 
written by one of founders of the order of “The 
Cassayuna Fish Line”: 
THE SAME OLD LIE. 
BY DR. F. J. TOMPKINS. 
The Old Sport sat in the stern of the boat. 
And the sweat ran down till the seat was afloat, 
And he wiped his brow on the tail of his coat. 
And says he, “This lake is a-working.” 
His face was red and his neck was a sight, 
And he longed for the cooling shades of night, 
And says he, “The reason the fish don’t bite. 
Is because this lake is a-working.” 
Then he got a strike and his line ran cut, 
And he upset his bait as he galloped about, 
And he split the air with a gladsome shout, 
“Who says this lake is a-working?” 
He played that fish for an hour or more, 
And he tangled his line and he lost an oar. 
Then his leader parted, and Lord! how he swore, 
At the blamed old lake and its working. 
Then back to his home went the fisherman bold, 
And his h : de was the color of rich red gold, 
And he told the same lie that we all have told, 
For says he, “The lake is a-working.” 
There may come a time in the bye-and-bye, 
And hope we will see it—you and I—■ 
Where a man will invent an original lie, 
And let up on the lake that is “working.” 
One day’s fishing convinced me that I had 
located the best large- and small-mouth black 
bass fishing within a day’s trip of New York 
city. The next day I wanted a try with the dry- 
fly, although most of the Cassayuna ardents ran 
to bass. 
There only are two guides on the lake; they 
represent two of the ages of man—youth and 
three score. Both are good and reliable, and 
strange as it may seem—are deferential. They 
work for your pleasure and work all the time 
you are with them. 
Roy started me at daylight on a trip 
along the streams. At the end of the day, with a 
full creel, we motored back to the Oaks at Cassa¬ 
yuna, where by the log fire the accompanying 
map was born. Tt shows only places, general 
locations and their direction one from another, 
with their relative position. There is no ac¬ 
companying scale of miles—a fisherman knows 
no miles. When you get to Salem, Green¬ 
wich or East Salem, ask at the livery stable 
and you will have no difficulty in locating a 
guide. The natives all are anglers and work- 
only when the lake enjoys the same process. 
To the hunter there comes a call from this 
section. From Tefft Flats to Salem he will 
find ruffed grouse, woodcock, rabbit and an oc¬ 
casional deer, but from Tinkey’s Pond, around 
the upper end of Cassayuna to Hebron Pond 
and down to Carter’s Lake the sportsman fond 
of bird shooting will find the bag limit every 
day. The deer hunter here will get a chance 
at a buck most likely. 
Most of the territory is unposted, while 
some of the forbidden territory may be shot 
over on payment of fifty cents a day to the 
owner. Here then, is—near New York city— 
a great game and fish country, very little known 
to sportsmen. Don't tell my secret to those 
outside the fraternity. 
THE HOODOO. 
BY DR. F. J. TOMPKINS. 
Where the waving arms of the forest 
Tossed wildly to and fro, 
And nod to themselves in the limpid lake. 
In the time of long ago; 
Where the white man’s foot had never trod, 
And Dame Nature held her sway, 
An Indian sat on the grassy sod, 
And his eyes looked far away. 
A wise old man was this Indian chief— 
A medicine man, they say— 
And his gaze pierced the veil of the centuries 
Forever and a day; 
And the future rolled back before him 
Like mist from the morning sun. 
And his heart grew bold and his face was sad, 
For he saw that his race was run. 
And what do I see before me? 
And where is the forest gone? 
Ard where is the bounding roebuck? 
And the scream of the panther’s song? 
And where are my people’s wigwams? 
And where can the Nessmuk lay? 
Alas! for the things that mine eyes have seen 
In the centuries far away! 
For he saw the white man toiling 
And he heard the crash of the oak. 
And the air was filled with the furnace dust 
In place of the wigwam smoke— 
The canoes on the shining water 
Bore wings like a wondrous gull. 
And some breathed fire till the water boiled 
Like a torrent, beneath the hull. 
Then, suddenly, close beside him 
He saw a wigwam grand. 
It had pressed the forest before it, 
Away down to the shining strand; 
And now, like a dream from the distance, 
Came a paleface, who calmly spoke: 
“I like this spot, I'll be hanged if I don’t; 
I'll call this place ‘The Oaks.’ ” 
Now the heart of this wise old chieftain 
Was furrowed and seared' with woe. 
