292 
FOREST AND STREAM 
[Aug. 19, 1911. 
the flush of pleasure which came to my cheeks, 
when I heard that veteran critic say: “You 
drop those fly on the water teetotally nice.” 
The little fellows were carefully returned to 
grow wiser, and after reserving eight, averaging 
about one pound each, we turned our canoe for 
the campward trip. 
One delightful day followed another, but with 
the lack of rain, the fishing became more difficult 
until near the end of our stay I had that exas¬ 
perating experience which comes to anglers too 
frequently, when trout are seen to jump at every 
hand, yet no artificial fly, however tempting, will 
cause them to rise. On that occasion, without 
result, I tried them with every fly with which I 
had a speaking acquaintance, and with every 
other one in my book, of which I did not know 
the name, and I certainly had some wonderful 
and fearful varieties. 
I then recalled that James Keen had informed 
me that he had found it useless to fish during 
an east wind, and as it was blowing from the 
east at the time, I told Joe that I was ready to quit. 
Deep down in the hearts of those of us who 
are ruggedly honest there is something which at 
times makes us confess a weakness of which 
we are ashamed, and so it is in this instance. 
Before leaving New York and while engaged in 
making my purchases for the trip I had seen a 
most enticing little spinner bait, and in a moment 
of weakness had purchased it. 
I had hidden it from the Keens and the 
Clarkes, and even from Ira, who really enjoyed 
seeing me catch and play a trout more than 
hooking one himself, but in opening my fly-book 
one day it dropped from its wrapping, almost at 
the feet of Joe, who looked at me with an ac¬ 
cusing eye. Being about to leave the pool at 
which I had been casting, Joe in a forgiving tone 
of voice suggested: “Why don't you try those 
spoon bait?” 
I looked him squarely in the eye to see if he 
was trifling with me, but he looked so guileless 
and sincere that I forgave him on the spot and 
tied on the spinner. It mattered not whether 
the troll spun north or south, east or west, no 
trout rose to the lure, and finally in disgust I 
gave it a final cast and let it sink. 
I cannot conceive what influence a sinking 
spoon attached to an impossible bunch of feathers 
can have upon a trout, but there must have been 
something magnetic about it which conveyed it¬ 
self to me and to a pound trout at the same 
moment, for quicker than it takes to tell there 
was action, and such action! Words cannot de¬ 
scribe the keen thrill of joy that is awakened 
when a good fight is in progress—up the stream, 
then fighting every inch of the way back, now 
the net was under him, but away he went again 
for another fifty feet, only to be snubbed and 
brought slowly back, then as the net was placed 
under him once more he started savagely toward 
bottom, complicating matters by running directly 
under the canoe, but patience, which is a virtue 
finding its highest exemplification in the fisher¬ 
man, brought its timely reward, and the finny 
beauty ultimately floundered in the bottom of the 
canoe. 
Considerable additional effort proved conclu¬ 
sively that there were no more fool trout in that 
pool. Bestowing the spinner upon the Indian 
as a reward, his further suggestions were re¬ 
quested and followed. A small strip of trout 
belly, where it joins the lower jaw, commonly 
spoken of as the tongue, was placed upon a hook, 
and in speedy succession two more trout were 
taken before our return to camp. 
Camp life proved interesting and instructive 
from the manner of setting tent to the washing 
of Joe’s “cooking tenshuls,” which was done by 
turning them round and round on the pebbly 
beach till they were thoroughly scoured. 
Even the flies came in for full attention from 
the midge fly, “Psee psunt jeetchk” for which 
locally there exists no other than the Indian 
name, translated into “little-bite-em and no-see- 
um,” and more commonly abbreviated into “no 
see-ums,” to the ubiquitous mosquito which, 
while no respecter of persons, yet seemed to 
select favorite operative localities when oppor¬ 
tunity presented. When one considers that out¬ 
doors served for all but sleeping purposes, it 
requires no great stretch of the imagination to 
determine the favorite field of mosquito activity. 
Nights, except for the entertainment furnished 
by “Aadaah Gaalee,” the bull frog, aided by his 
W HEN I was mounted, Blanton put his sad¬ 
dle on “Jim,” a magnificent black stal¬ 
lion with three white stockings and a 
star, after which he said, “Get down, Jim,” tap¬ 
ping his knee with the back of his shoe, where¬ 
upon the intelligent and docile animal got down 
on his knees and B. stepped on to the saddle and 
Jim scrambled to his feet and ambled off at a 
fox trot. We camped at a deserted log cabin, 
where a spring flowed from the hillside above 
a gully, through a primitive spring house, and 
thence to the river a hundred yards below. 
This morning Deguire, who hauled us out, 
went back with the mules and I have been 
straightening up. (Just a minute. The fire, hav¬ 
ing dried the dish rag, is trying to burn it up.) 
B. is out on a leaning tree at the river after 
a certain ten-pound mudcat. I will know if he 
gets it by hearing the “ping” of the smokeless. 
For this work the mountain folk have adopted 
the steel-jacketed projectile; and say, dear and 
ethical brethren of the fly-rod, it certainly does 
it. What do you say to a fish running down a 
pool two feet below the surface eighty yards 
off? “You allow four inches back for every 
foot of depth.” Likewise, it has done away with 
cutting down trees for all varmints therein. B. 
and one of the boys were trailing a deer with 
Spot, while another hound trifled along giving 
sinful heed to small game. This culminated in 
his treeing something in a hollow tree. The 
two men rode up and B. said: “We have got 
to stop her or she will call Spot off the trail. 
Get down and run a stick up that gum tree and 
twist it and see what kind of fur it is.” He did 
so, and after a critical examination said: “Pa, 
it’s a ’coon.” 
“All right; measure on the outside of the tree 
how far up it is. Now, stand aside.” The boy 
made a mark on the bark, stood off, B. sent a 
steel-clad bullet through the tree and down drop¬ 
ped, shot just below the shoulders, a gray fox. 
issue down to the sixth generation, and by col¬ 
lateral relatives similarly blest with descendants, 
were quiet and peaceful, so long as the wind was 
strong enough to carry off the mosquitoes and 
no-see-ums; on other occasions the usual smudge 
brought much relief. 
I left Ira back in the woods while I journeyed 
on to Halifax to see the sights, and here once 
more while in a hot, stuffy room I wondered 
whether fate had not again intervened, this time 
to express an unfavorable opinion of me for 
leaving the cool contentment of the woods by 
placing on my wash stand a cake of soap where 
I could not fail to see the imprint reading, “In¬ 
fant’s Delight.” 
In due time I met Ira at Digby and we left 
for home, with the single regret that the expedi¬ 
tion must remain but a memory until the com¬ 
ing spring, when, if no evil fate prevents, we 
will make another journey into these peaceful 
solitudes, for we have found it good at times for 
man to be alone with his kind. 
“Just a minute, until I see what is the matter 
with that hound’s neck.” 
Now, if a dog has any sort of a cut that he 
can reach, he licks it and keeps it clean, and it 
gets well. If he cannot reach it, he says, “Kis¬ 
met.” This wound back of his ear was badly 
infected, moreover it was long and deep; you 
could lay your thumb joint in it, but you would 
not. I rolled him over and stood him on his 
head until we got about an ounce of pus, after 
which I washed it out with bichloride of mer¬ 
cury solution and packed it with cotton, oxide 
of zinc and resorsin. In less than a minute after 
he was sound asleep. I notice that every fellow 
laughs at that medicine chest of mine except the 
one who is sick or gets hurt. 
This forenoon B. paddled me through one 
pool while I caught six small-mouth bass with 
a bucktail and a professor. If we had kept on 
down the river we could have taken an even 
hundred before dark if we had wanted to do 
so, which we did not. In the year of our Lord, 
1911, enough’s enough. 
I am about decided on two fish, four slices 
of bacon, whole wheat bread, butter, jam, cof¬ 
fee and cheese for dinner. Then will come 
what is, to me, the best part of camping out. 
Cigars, starlight, whipporwills, owls, the hounds 
baying up on the mountain, stories, a drink of 
buttermilk from the jug next the ice, and then 
sleep. 
This is a valley cut by the river down into 
the Salem Plateau (the Ozarks), the oldest land 
on this continent, older than the Rocky Moun¬ 
tains. The cabin, however, is comparatively new. 
Nevertheless, we found it tenantless. In the 
deep woods, so near the river, it is damp, and 
the man’s wife had two congestive chills; more¬ 
over, it doubtless was lonesome so far from the 
road, so they left. Man is a sociable creature. 
Upon reflection we concluded four fish would 
not be too many. While I washed the dishes, 
In the Ozarks 
By GEORGE KENNEDY 
