908 
FOREST AND STREAM 
An Angry 
Bull Moose 
Ferociously Charged 
Theodore Roosevelt 
near Quebec, last hunting season. 
How the Colonel killed the Bull 
in self defense, after having previously 
obtained his legal limit of Moose, 
is told by him in the February 1916 
“Scribner”, and by sworn affidavit 
at Quebec. 
Caribou and Deer 
are abundant in parts of Quebec 
Province, as well as moose and bear. 
The Best Trout Fishing 
in the world is in the Province of Quebec, 
and so are the best Guides both for fishing 
and hunting. Read Henry van Dyke’s de¬ 
scription of some of them in “Little Rivers.” 
Mining Rights 
are obtainable on most liberal conditions. 
Write for details. 
Would you like to own 
A Summer Camp 
for your family, by a forest-clad stream or 
mountain-surrounded lake ? 
You can build one of your own, by leas¬ 
ing a fishing and hunting territory from the 
Government of the Province, whether a 
resident of it or not, or by joining one of 
the many fish and game clubs. 
Write for an illustrated booklet on 
‘‘The Fish and Game Clubs of Quebec”, 
which tells you all about them, and address 
all enquiries concerning fishing and hunting 
rights, fish and game laws, guides, etc., to 
HON. HONORE MERCIER, 
Minister of Colonization, Mines and Fisheries, 
QUEBEC, QUE. 
Fine Fishing Tackle 
Our Factory and Salesrooms are under the same roof 
Making Fishing Tackle since 1867 and pulling 
strong. This is a recommendation in itself. No 
diverting of energies among different kinds of 
merchandise—nothing but Tackle, and we have 
reached that high efficiency which is the result 
of specialization. We never sacrifice quality to 
make a low price but neither do we ever use 
quality as an excuse for a high price. 
Send 5 cents in stamps for a copy of our Catalog 
Edward vom Hofe & Company 
105-107 Fulton Street NEW YORK CITY 
himself? Now his home and his affiliations fol¬ 
lowed in the wake of all, and it gave him no 
rest, adding discomfort to his confused brain. 
How could he put a ligature above the wound! 
The enamelled fishing line would be the thing. 
Alas! Was it not too late? From the Spartan 
he fell to the craven, as he pondered over his 
predicament. A thousand times he cursed him¬ 
self. Why such folly? From any other place 
he could escape instantly, and for a few fish he 
must give his life! There was nothing now but 
death! 
After a short time a feeling of perverseness in¬ 
fluenced him. One way or the other, he had to 
die. He admitted it a thousand times. No medi¬ 
cal assistance! The watery grave on the other 
hand ! But he would not dash from his present 
torment to the quicker death of the stream! He 
would sit there calmly and await the coming of 
the end. How grand this seemed to him! The 
setting of the stream in its hill fastness, the gor¬ 
geousness of spring were beauties created for 
his farewell. He could not appreciate how brave 
he had become, or how easy it was to reconcile 
himself to an unresisting end. He could with 
ease indulge in heroics for there was not a 
scintilla of hope for intervention. 
He awaited the final dropping of the curtain. 
What a strange mystery he was about to pene¬ 
trate ! He had courage now—marvellous cour¬ 
age. He was facing eternity! Was there such a 
thing? The churches and its criers had all 
preached to him of it. What did they know about 
it? Ha! Ha! He was to learn the real truth, 
something that had always been denied them! 
Death was devoid of terror, after all! 
A tug on his right hand almost threw him off 
his balance into the river. Instantly Harper 
stood upright, whereupon he looked for the cause 
and his eyes roved along the water. All through 
his agony his right hand had retained the rod, 
and out there, wonder of wonders! a leaping 
small mouth was tugging desperately at the end 
of his line. 
Again was presented the river or the land. 
The spirit of sportsmanship took a place 
right then. Another battle was on, a hard fight¬ 
ing fish against the delicate inhibitive instruments 
of man. Which would win? What a fitting 
death for an angler! Everything must end with 
death. The last battle! What a drama might 
be composed from this! A painting! The fight 
for death! Which? 
Up in the air went the fish. The first check 
of the reel’ showed too much suddenness. The 
rod was strained to its utmost. What a fish he 
was! There, he broke the water with a thrilling 
leap, shaking at his tether like a vicious dog. 
Then with a mad, belligerent rush he fought 
downstream. 
And Harper only sensed the enthusiasm of the 
engagement. Such a fish was a prize to be 
fought for. It was too much on his rod to stop 
him there, and he followed rapidly down the 
ledge, scarcely watching once where he placed 
his feet. 
Once more the fish went up in the air, a reve¬ 
lation of spectacular agility and daring militancy. 
His great sides of green bronze glistened as his 
flight from water became more frequent. He 
dashed hither and thither, but the patience and 
the endurance of the angler fought against him. 
He was fast approaching the end of the narrow 
deep water. His goal was the swift water at the 
head of the racing shoal. 
The angler followed, and before he knew it, 
he was off from the dangerous ledge, fighting 
his fish away from the rapids. Almost to the 
armpits he was, with waders filled and his gar¬ 
ments drenched. But he fought his fish with a 
master hand and oblivious of his personal dis¬ 
comfort. 
In time the fish yielded. The swift water was 
not to be his. Something behind the length of 
slender line was telling on his strength. In an 
excess of rage he dashed upstream—bull of the 
kind that he was—but the same restraint was on 
him. In fury he leaped and leaped until the 
angler began to despair of victory. Finally he 
began to circle, then in miniature circles, and in 
a few moments the great red eyes of a conquered 
small mouth bass glared contentiously into Har¬ 
per’s, as he backed into the landing net. 
Harper’s mind raced back quickly to his afflic¬ 
tion. What, no inflammation! The two red 
spots were washed somewhat cleaner, and there 
remained only a little smarting. What could be 
the reason? His limbs were destitute of tremor. 
His heart beat just a trifle faster than normal. 
And the perspiration exuding, despite his wet 
garments was warm, like that from toil. 
Again his eyes fastened on his hand, and 
closer than they had ever been that day. Com¬ 
prehension of another kind dawned on him. He 
knelt down in the shallow water, and dug rapidly 
in the wound with his nails. His face flushed 
a childlike red of embarrassment, as a veil of 
great depression was lifted. For there, right at 
the end of his thumb nail were two small dark 
spines of the sawbriar vine! 
With gleeful shouts of the angler the hills re¬ 
verberated. Then Harper quickly opened his 
creel. The still struggling fish was all it could 
contain. He pulled it out. He held it aloft. It 
was active as ever. Then slowly, almost with 
reverence, he dropped it carefully in the water. 
The fish swam weakly at first, then quite sure 
of its strength it bored and disappeared from 
view. 
TRULY A MIXED BAG. 
Saginaw, Mich., February 11, 1916. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
Through a friend of mine I got copy of a 
letter written to an acquaintance of this friend, 
by another friend, so much so that it is fifth or 
sixth handed before reaching me but at any rate 
it is headed “A Mixed Bag,” that was made by 
someone whom I do not know nor never heard 
of, fifteen or twenty miles from Crystal City, 
Texas: 
18 White-winged Doves 
7 Scaled Quail 
3 Wilson Snipe 
4 Ducks 
3 Jack Rabbits 
1 Coyote 
2 Wild Cats 
I Armadillo 
all killed with a 20 gauge gun. The cat and two 
half grown cubs jumped out of a thick tangle 
near where this gentleman was quail hunting and 
he got one with each barrel. The coyote trotted 
past his duck blind within twenty yards. 
The reason that I am sending this to you is 
that it is a novelty in the way of a mixed bag. 
W. B. Mershon. 
