660 
FOREST AND STREAM 
forever. “Why, we had hardly gotten our lines 
wet the other night when they began a-biting, 
and we were pulling them out. Say, lad, the 
first thing I hooked on a dandy ol’ lively min¬ 
now. Sank her down ten feet, you know. The 
lantern draws them in, of course, and they 
come up to see what the light means. I had 
the bobber on, and could tell right away when 
something was up. Sudden-like—it dipped down. 
Up I pulled, hand over hand, and I hustled out 
a big lobster Tout poun’ an’ ah half in weight.” 
Julius paused here and allowed the proper in¬ 
terval of silence for emphasis, and smiled, in 
utmost benevolence and invitation. 
“And, mind yon, as fast as I could put that 
line down in the water they were there. Dip, 
went the cork, an’ quick as lightning I jerks, 
and I gets them every time, not one miss. I got 
ten of them in quick succession. Talk about 
fishing. And, say —here is just a bit of informa¬ 
tion I am letting you in on. Keep it dark. 
Listen : the colder the night, the more fish yuh 
get. Get my drift. The colder the weather, I 
say, the better the fishing. Better come. I got 
a stack of minnows I landed out of the Laugh¬ 
ing Waters, the Minnehaha, Shiners—silverie 
shiners— see them glitter. Not your swamp hole 
trash. Better come!” 
He had now throughly aroused me. 
“I believe I will go out and try it,” was my 
remark. “I am equal to it. I’ll go. Come out 
here on the train tomorrow on the nine-fifty-five 
and I will meet you at Long Lake with the horse 
in the morning. We will fish tomorrow night. 
You stay over Sunday. See?” 
“Right,” uttered Julius, in well rounded con¬ 
tent, with a decisive sweep of his “weed,” 
the usual air of deliberation, and resolve ac¬ 
centuating his expression. “I get the minnows. 
I come. I bring my fishing dope—and we will 
go out together, and if we don’t have luck at 
those old holes again, my name is not J. A.T. P.” 
We went that night. The day had been a 
cold, stiff Minnesota January day, and evening 
settled down chilly and disconsolate, with the 
trees dismally cracking, giving a hint of the 
rigid midnight to be. But, nothing daunted, we 
piled into the wagon seat, ample robes around 
us, each with two pairs of pants on, overcoats, 
our lanterns full of oil, and there nestled in my 
possession a round shaving mirror, which, by 
adjusting it, upright, close to the lantern, 
would throw into the water a ray of reflected 
light that would prove irresistible in its attract¬ 
iveness to the finny brethren below. It was a 
tingling old night, and the brisk air bit the roses 
into our cheeks, thick and heavy. We sang 
“Casey Jones,” and finished it off with “There’s 
a girl in the heart of Maryland, with a heart 
that belongs to me,” and then Julius began to 
tell me stories. We reached the lake, drove into 
the millionaire’s barn with our horse (I knew 
the caretaker) fed her up, and then we were 
ready for the lake, with our lanterns bright 
and burning. Already, here and there, on the 
lake, we could see men with lanterns, moving 
around, and we knew their object. But very few 
had come out. The bitter cold held them home 
by the fire. We had control of the situation, 
and all there was left for us to do was to catch 
the fish. We located the place without any diffi¬ 
culty, and were soon busy with the ice-chisels, 
hewing foot-round holes to happiness, anticipa¬ 
tion sending wavering thrills through us. The 
shaved ice was skimmed off of the water, the 
lanterns were inserted at the edge of the hole, 
the blankets laid down to rest upon, if we liked, 
and we were ready. I now fixed my reflector 
by the side of the lantern, and, as I had ex¬ 
pected, it worked to perfection. It threw a 
fine, piercing light into the silent wilderness of 
water below. I threaded on a wiggling minnow, 
put it down, and announced myself complete. 
"‘Now just you watch,” remarked Julius; 
“they are here. I know it, I feel it in the air. 
That reflector of yours will be damaging to 
them all around.” 
Crappies, as I have said, in a previous article, 
run in certain heights in the water. In the 
daytime you will have to fish at least twenty- 
five feet deep for them. At night, with the light 
Bringing in the Trophy. 
to lure them up, they can be caught as close, 
easily, as ten feet from the surface. Contrary 
to my knowledge, this year in Minnesota one is 
allowed to fish with lanterns, but you are not 
permitted to chop these lights down into the ice, 
at the edge of the hole- Some of the fellows 
further down the lake had done this. We noted 
also that they had a roaring wood-fire going 
on the ice. We had our lines connected to small 
sticks, as miniature fishpoles. The line, with the 
minnow on it, is worked up and down in the 
water, to tantalize, and exasperate, the fish be¬ 
low. Then, after a few trials of this, the line 
is allowed to rest, and one patiently watches 
the bobber. That there is an irresistibleness of 
appeal in the performance goes without saying. 
To the man who has not tried it, it may seem 
absolutely lacking of demanded attractive quali¬ 
ties, but the fact remains that it is a thorough 
pleasure in every sense of the word—and it would 
be more so if one did not have to freeze him¬ 
self pretty nearly into an icicle. Now, speaking 
about the light, as used when ice-fishing, it may 
not be out of place to mention a certain affair 
they have used on the lakes, this winter, a con¬ 
trivance, the use of which is against the law— 
it is so very attractive. This contrivance is an 
electrical affair, with battery attachment, giving 
out a fine light, which may not be entered by 
the water. This is dropped into the water, and 
the hook, with minnow on it, is sunken down 
to the light. Five gentlemen some time ago, I 
hear, caught over two hundred and fifty crap¬ 
pies thus, with the game warden none the wiser. 
Thus it is, that, by hook, or crook, men are 
going to get around all the schemes and de¬ 
vices of the law, and they generally do it, since 
the inventive mind of man has not as yet been 
put away on the scrap heap. 
Dip, went my bobber, a cork threaded on the 
line! Instantly I was alive, holding my breath 
in expectation. The barest movement of the 
cork now ensued. I struck, and I had one on. 
My! he was a lusty fellow, whirling around, and 
around, in the water, but the next moment, out 
he plumped; I had the first one safe. He was 
every bit of eight inches in length; a broad, fat 
fellow, the personification of Well-Fed. Short¬ 
ly after, Julius bent down inquisitively, over 
the ice. Then he jerked, and up came another, 
breaking through the water of the hole with a 
flap, flap- The game was on! 
Now, it began to get cold, very, very cold, 
indeed. I had leather knee boots on my feet. 
I submit this conclusion: that about the poorest 
footwear for winter is leather boots. They are 
veritable ice-chests, nothing better. Laced tight 
around the legs they hold in all the air, and 
if your feet are inclined to sweat,’ the cold will 
hit you right between the eyes. I envied Julius 
before I had been on that ice one half hour. He 
had lumberman’s rubbers, with German socks, 
and his feet were allowed absolute freedom. But 
then, being a poor crank, and fool, I have gotten 
so used to leathern boots that it is hard to be 
wooed away from the disease, since nearly two- 
thirds of my life has been spent in them, in 
one way or another. The wind was now rising. 
It swept across the lake with a biting, penetrating 
tongue of ice, straight from the Arctic zone, 
that stiffened the body. But the fish were bit¬ 
ing, and biting well. I quickly landed five un¬ 
questionable beauties; then there was a lull, in 
which I again worked the line up and down to 
get them stirred up. Incidentally I gave Julius 
a review of my Californian days and nights; 
the catching of yellow-tail off Catalina; four 
days I spent on the water, market fishing, for 
tuna; a trip up to the high pools of the San 
Gabriel, for trout, in the late summer, and the 
stray days I fished on Santa Cruz streams in the 
neighborhood of San Francisco. 
And it got colder. My feet began to freeze 
through. I jumped, beat my arms across my 
breast and shivered, even though I had a heavy 
sweater and coat on. It got so finally that I 
dreaded the thought of putting on a new min¬ 
now; and yet we stood there, unable to think 
anything but fish, the fever of summer strong 
upon us. Ice began to form along my line. 
When I lifted it out, it stiffened, and all I had 
to do when I had a fresh minnow on was to 
poke it down in the water again, like a stick- 
My fingers were stiff. My mittens standing out 
like ice-palaces; and still we stood there. 
One by one our fishing neighbors departed for 
home, and bed, and the time came when we alone 
held our posts, do or die, with the wind howling 
around us; giving an idea of what men will do 
