Forest and Stream 
Terms, $3 a Year, 10 Cts. a Copy, 
Six Months, $1.50. 
NEW YORK, SATURDAY, JULY 8, 1911. 
VOL. LXXVII.— No. 2. 
No. 127 Franklin St., New York. 
Haphazard Adventures of Four Landlubbers 
I.—On Sag Harbor Waters 
By CARL S. SHAFER 
T HE firm had agreed to pay my salary for 
two whole weeks minus labor, but where 
to go was the all-absorbing 
problem of the household for sev¬ 
eral weeks. We longed for new 
scenes and new experiences. We 
wanted to go where there was fish¬ 
ing and hunting and at the same 
time avoid the characteristic sum¬ 
mer crowd and summer vacation¬ 
ist atmosphere of the well adver¬ 
tised resorts. Dainty maidens, 
handsome bachelors, adorable old 
women and a continual fatiguing 
round of boating, bathing and 
dances appeal to the multitude as 
the right sort of a vacation, but 
we sought recreation. We want¬ 
ed to don our oldest clothes and 
for two weeks live next to 
nature, as far from the conven¬ 
tionalized summer hotels and 
boarding houses as possible with¬ 
out penetrating the heart of the 
wilderness. 
To find a place where we would 
be sure to have a good time and 
get the most enjoyment for our 
money was a perplexing question. 
To begin with, we put a penny 
on Indian Lake and another on 
Lake Champlain, considered the 
fishing possibilities of the St. 
Lawrence, and finally wrote to an 
old fisherman’s friend of a friend 
living well up on the coast of 
Maine. His reply was simple, 
direct and to the point: 
“Fishin’ hain’t wuth shucks and 
I hain’t sleepin’ room for wimen.” 
It was a very discouraging letter 
that naturally prejudiced my wife 
and my sister-in-law against 
Maine fishing shacks as a place 
of abode. As the time of de¬ 
parture was close at hand, we 
held a family conference which 
culminated in our deciding to try 
Long Island, and at the eleventh 
hour we took boat for Sag Harbor. 
An hour after our arrival we 
started out to investigate for the first time in 
our lives the possibilities of salt-water fishing. 
Wandering along thfe beach, we saw a fat negro 
dangling his feet off the end of a dock, indus¬ 
triously jiggling a line up and down. For five 
or ten minutes we watched him closely, and sud¬ 
denly saw his face crack into a smile that looked 
like a quarter section of a red, ripe watermelon, 
and he yanked a two-pound blackfish up on the 
dock beside him. 
“What are you using for bait, 
uncle?” I inquired. 
“Fiddlers; cotched ’em dis 
mornin’ in gener’l trainin’ over 
on Hog’s Neck. These here 
blackfish bite powerful well on 
’em.” 
“Want to sell some of your 
bait?” I asked, eyeing a four- 
quart pail covered with a strip of 
tin and from which a scratching 
noise was issuing. I endeavored 
not to appear too ignorant. 
After considerable hesitation he 
sold us a quart or so of the crabs 
for a quarter. I plied him with 
unimportant questions concern¬ 
ing fishing in local waters until 
I had the satisfaction of seeing 
hini pick out a fiddler, jerk off 
the two long claws and bait his 
hook. That was easy. I could 
now bait my hook in the most 
approved fashion, so we went a 
few rods further down the beach 
and fished from an iron bridge 
spanning a neck which a party of 
successful anglers had just left. 
For an hour we stood with our 
backs to a stiff gale or “dry 
eastah,” as the natives called it, 
and patiently baited on crab after 
crab; fished—simply fished. We 
were growing exceedingly dis¬ 
gusted when a seafaring man 
came rolling along. Fie gave us 
the grand hailing sign of good 
will, “What luck?” We shook 
our heads. 
“Well, I suspected as much; 
them fiddlers you are using are 
the wrong kind of bait. The 
wind is too high. You want to 
use clams on a windy day like 
this and get out on the break¬ 
water and fish down the holes 
and cracks. Great piece of work, 
that breakwater. Cost the Gov¬ 
ernment a pile of money. Wish 
I had it. The holes in that stone pile swarm 
with blackfish. You want to get a boat and go 
over there.” 
ONE OF THE TROUT BROOKS AT HOME. 
Photograph by Mary Otis March. 
