Troat Fishing. 
Where yonder sinuous stream its slow length winds 
Along beneath the drooping alder bush, 
And feathery fern, whose arrogance doth push 
It aye to seek the extremest verge that binds 
The ill-restrained deep from overflow— 
There gently drop thy treacherous lure within 
The circling eddy—round and round ’twill spin. 
Anon, as swift as arrow from the bow. 
With strength to test the deftest line and rod. 
Some luckless rover come, that sans a doubt 
Will gorge the bait, and then his time is brief. 
The strain’s severe, but soon upon the sod 
You land him safe, and trembling like a leaf. 
You watch the well-won prize—a monster trout. 
Henry D. Atwood. 
Trout Fishing in the Snow. 
Every angler is constantly on tfie lookout for 
new experiences and adventures. Some, blessed 
with an abundance of this world’s goods, wander 
from the Nipigon to Whitney Creek, from the 
salmon rivers of Canada to the tarpon waters 
of Florida, thus they gratify the inherent desire. 
But the great majority of fishermen must find 
new sensations near home if we are to find them 
at all. If the red gods will allow me to angle 
for tarpon and ouananiche in the sweet by and 
by, well and good; till then I am going to seek 
to gratify my desire for new experiences, if need . 
be, in my own back yard. 
The blizzard of the last three days of April 
has already become a matter of history. The 
storm blew itself out at last and May 3 dav/ned 
bright and clear, though the thermometer regis¬ 
tered 18 above zero, and the crust would bear 
the weight of a man. I suggested to my wife 
that we go trouting, but she laughed me to 
scorn. “Trouting, forsooth!’’ Piqued, I hunted 
up the Other Fellow and broached the subject 
with fear and trembling, but he fortunately was 
in a receptive mood. He is one of those laconic 
individuals who make every word and action 
count, so he only remarked as he re-entered the 
store, “You get ready and I will meet you at 
the corner in half an hour.” 
I flew to the garden for worms. I was com¬ 
pelled to dig through a foot of snow before I 
reached the earth. Some sparrows gathered to 
see what I was about and remained to help pick 
up worms, though they did not place their find¬ 
ings in my bait box. We drove through snow 
drifts hub deep on a main traveled road, caus¬ 
ing the Other Fellow to remark, “And this is 
the third of May!” In. one cut the snow was 
five feet deep, but by dint of great exertion we 
got the horse and carriage through, but I hope 
that I may never take such a ride again in the 
month of the arbutus and hepatica, even though 
my life run at a dead level. 
We were wet with perspiration and puffing 
and wheezing like worn out locomotives, when 
at last we stood upon the bluff above the little 
creek that was to be the theater of the day’s 
action. At our feet lay the marsh, white and 
immaculate, save where pink and brown willows 
and alders marked the course of the stream. 
The outlook was not very “trouty” and I inti¬ 
mated as much to the Other Fellow, but he only 
nodded his head. We separated to meet at the 
leaning elm at noon. I felt foolish wading 
through snow knee deep with a fly-rod in my 
hand, but soon forgot the ludicrous aspect of 
things in the keen sensation of pleasure the novel 
situation aroused. Just how to fish a trout 
stream in winter time I did not know. It was 
wading whether I fished from the bank or in 
the stream. Then there was the matter of flies! 
W'hich fly would prove acceptable in snow time? 
I have thrown trout into knee high grass, into 
THE THIRD OF MAY IN WISCONSIN. 
waist high weeds, into water-covered meadows, 
but never before did I throw them into knee 
deep snow. 
In the snow close to the water’s edge I dis¬ 
covered the print of a bird’s foot with a six- 
inch spread of toes, far too large for the track 
of a crow, the only bird which I could think of 
that might be found on those flats. Later I dis¬ 
covered the track maker standing upon one foot, 
its tail just touching the snow, a great blue 
heron. If, as the old tradition has it, the soul 
of Herodias was incarnated in the heron, then 
that amicable female is not securing her just 
deserts, for the environment of that particular 
heron was altogether too cool. I discovered an¬ 
other bird upon a mud flat, a single woodcock. 
Up to that moment I had not thought of the 
timber doodle. He, a worm feeder, must have 
been hard put to it for food. Six days of snow 
must have spelled starvation for that king of 
game birds. I could not help noticing the dearth 
of song birds, a single wood thrush alone hav¬ 
ing courage enough to sing, and he only twice. 
Where a much used path came in over the 
hills I discovered the tracks of another fisher¬ 
man. “Oh, ho,” said I to myself, “the Other 
Fellow and I are not the only ones abroad to¬ 
day in search of new sensations.” Promptly I 
set out down the bank, following the tracks, 
keen to overtake whoever had made them. I 
found him to be a young farmer who lived near 
the creek, and to my question why he was out 
on such a day, intimating that he must have 
been badly in need of meat, he replied, “Well, 
no, can’t says that I really wanted fish, and I 
haven’t caught none. You see. Mister,” he con¬ 
tinued, drawling his words in a manner that in¬ 
dicated a Southern ancestry, “I’m out to-day be¬ 
cause I never fished for trout in the snow, and 
because I wanted to see how the birds and 
flowers were gittin’ on. Been feedin’ the birds 
for a whole week now. The air beauties 
(arbutus) were just about ready to blossom be¬ 
fore this snow. Do you think it will kill them?” 
There was no mistaking his honest solicitude, 
and I was glad to assure him that the snow 
would not harm them in the least. I liked the 
young fellow immensely. It is so unusual to 
meet a perfectly natural man in these days of 
seeming and superficiality. 
I reached the elm and was surprised to dis¬ 
cover that the Other Fellow had not put in an 
appearance. There was a sort of grim humor 
in shoveling away the snow in order to build 
the fire, for one would ordinarily find the earth 
carpeted with spring flowers at that season. By 
the time the Other Fellow appeared I had the 
tea made and trout fried. To my question as 
to what had detained him he returned a non¬ 
committal answer, and his face wore a some¬ 
what lugubrious expression. When he had drunk 
his tea he began to pull off his short rubber 
boots. Then I noticed that he was soaked to 
his waist, but I refrained from asking ques¬ 
tions, knowing that in due time he would tell 
the story in his own way. 
When his stockings were displayed in front 
of the fire to his satisfaction, he remarked: 
“Rubber boots are as good to keep water in as 
to keep it out. You see,” he said, holding first 
one foot then the other up to the fire, “I came 
to a place where the brush was so thick along 
the shore that it was impossible to fish from the 
bank, so I took to the water, thinking that it 
wouldn’t be any higher than the tops of my 
boots. All went well enough till I hooked a 
fish—the first one, mind you—then I forgot all 
about water and boots and stepped into a hole. 
In my endeavors to keep one foot dry I slipped, 
stumbled, and in spite of myself went down 
upon my knees.” 
Seeing that the story was ended so far as 
he was concerned, I asked innocently enough, 
“Was the fish a good one?” 
“The fish was a good one,” he returned and, 
with a slow smile, “it got away.” 
Suddenly my suspicions were aroused. “Look 
here, how many fish did you get?” 
“Well,” he replied, “the one that got away and 
