FOREST AND STREAM 
817 
The Prize Winning Rods 
Another prize 
‘ ‘ M u s k i e ’ ’ 
caught at Rut 
Iron, Connecti¬ 
cut River, by | 
S. A. Harris, 
Hartford, Conn. 
i The only fishing rods, of any 
material or make, able to stand 
up in actual hard fishing, year 
after year, under any and all 
conditions are the three-year 
guaranteed “BRISTOL” Steel 
Fishing Rods. 
For three successive years, 
in the greatest National Fish¬ 
ing Contests ever held, 
“BRISTOL” Rods have won 
more than twice as many prizes 
as any other r.d. “BRISTOL” 
Steel is better than any wood, 
bamboo or any other material 
for regular fishing—the proof 
being that there are more 
“BRISTOL” Rods sold than 
any other ten rods combined. 
Every “BRISTOL” is guar¬ 
anteed three years. There are 
imitations. Look for the trade¬ 
mark name “BRISTOL” on the 
handle. 
Order of your dealer or, if he 
hasn’t what you want, order by 
mail from us at no additional 
cost. 
WRITE FOR CATALOGUE—FREE ' 
Send 15c. for new 191S 
“BRISTOL” Art Calendar, re¬ 
produced in full. 
THE HORTON MFC. CO. 
84 Horton St., Bristol, Conn. 
Where I’ve Found the Longest Day Too Short. 
THE ANTICIPATIONS OF AN ANGLER 
By CHAKLES D. DAVIES 
I long to stand beside the curling streams, 
Where brothers of the angle make true their 
dreams. 
Dreams that are born when old King Frost 
Holds in his icy grip the brooks and water 
course. 
I long to greet the coming of the day 
When sleet and snow no longer stay, 
And the sun kissed earth shall usher in the 
Spring, 
When robins sing and blue birds whistle on the 
wing. 
I long to hail the coming of the time 
When, with rod, and reel, and silken line, 
I’ll ply the “gentle art” o’er rift and pool, 
Where the monarch of the brook holds kingly 
rule. 
With what delightful memories I seek 
The Willowemoc or the far famed Neversink, 
Or the swift Mongaup which affords good sport, 
And where I’ve found the longest day too short. 
So, in pleasing fancies, I will take my way 
And list to what the mountain brook may say, 
While standing on the flowery bank without a 
care, 
Hoping some unsophisticated trout to snare. 
With expectation strong I fish a “rise,” 
I cast, with wings erect, a “coachman” fly, 
A whirl, a tug, swift runs the singing reel, 
With gentle hand I bring a “native” to my creel. 
But we must wait with patience for the day 
When balmy spring shall break the winter’s stay, 
And the “Red Gods Call” and our dreams are 
brought about 
As we lure the speckled beauties and the rainbow 
trout. 
But we were there, and the view amply repaid 
us for our climb and tramp. 
Mountains upon mountains reaching up to 6,- 
000 feet and over, as far as the eye could reach, 
and the valley below with little farms dotted 
about here and there. The east side of Little 
Pisgah is very rough and rocky, with cliffs all 
along that slope. I determined we would go 
down these cliffs, and through the roughs, in 
hopes of finding some grouse. We worked our 
way down and through some likely places for 
grouse, but “nary one” did we see; and by the 
time we got hack to our trail at the foot of the 
Horseshoe Cave my young dog had gotten pretty 
well disgusted and gave it up. We stopped by a 
clear little stream and ate our lunch, and then 
turned back towards the lake and supper. 
In passing down an old road crossed by a 
stream lined thickly with kalmia and rhododen¬ 
dron, I sat for a moment on a log that had fallen 
across the road, took out my pocket handker¬ 
chief, laid my gun across my lap, and blew my 
nose. Now it so happened that a grouse was 
about fifteen feet behind me, quietly waiting for 
me to go on home. This sudden “schoo” was 
not to his liking and he rose with the noise of a 
full grown covey of quail and made for some 
part of the thicket best known to him. But I 
discarded that handkerchief,—having no further 
immediate need of it—and still having grouse on 
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my mind, my little No. 16 Fox took its place 
and I covered him ere he was forty yards away, 
with satisfactory results. He made desperate ef¬ 
forts to go on and my son told me he saw him 
try to light. So I told him under that tree he 
would be found dead, and so it proved. 
My experience has been that a hard hit grouse, 
or quail, that attempts to light in a tree, always 
falls under it dead; and I have had this to hap¬ 
pen with other birds. 
This was the only grouse we saw and the only 
one I have had a shot at this season. 
But I am expecting other experiences with 
these noble birds yet before the season closes. 
Ernest Ewbank. 
