496 
FOREST AND STREAM 
April 20, 1912 
Bass Fishing in a Pond 
By FRED E. MARTIN 
T he fishing number of Forest and Stream, 
dated March 23, impressed me very 
strongly. In spite of the strenuous fight 
I made against it, every thought went to long 
neglected fishing places. 
Most of that issue was as Greek to me, as 
the Sucker State affords no trout fishing to my 
knowledge; at least no stream or pond has ever 
engulfed a trout that took any of the numerous 
kinds of bait I may have unskillfully offered. 
But we have a few lakes and small ponds, and 
a few streams, where the large-mouth black 
bass abounds, and to my out-of-door nature 
they furnish as much sport as the universally 
known trout. However, no argument on my 
part will ensue in preference to the fighting 
bass over the trout, as I long since decided that 
I only need the opportunity to become a 
devotee to this particular kind of fishing. 
After reading that fishing number, my fever 
rose to about 102 and incidentally aroused a 
slumbering remembrance of the only really suc¬ 
cessful day I ever had with game fish, but a 
casual glance through an outside window at a 
nine-inch snow served to lower that tempera¬ 
ture to its normal stage. 
A half mile distant from the enterprising 
village where I live there is a sort of a pleasure 
resort known as Fludson’s Park, in which there 
is a small but deep artificial lake, which affords 
excellent boating, fishing and bathing. Short 
growths of willow and cattails border the 
edges of the crystal-like water, and on a hot 
summer day, a common double spinner cast in 
among these rushes in the proper manner, will 
often find itself imbedded in some part of a 
scrappy bass weighing from one-half to five 
pounds. And again you can try all the baits 
and lures—that are famed for 'their killing 
qualities—known to mankind and the bass will 
be blind to them all. 
One bright June morning, as I was engrossed 
in my business affairs, my telephone bell called 
me, and the following brief conversation burst 
forth: 
“Hello, who is this, and what do you want?” 
I half angrily asked, as business needed my un¬ 
divided attention. 
“Oh, I’m talkin’, and I want to find you at 
the park in the morning, with your rod and all 
the live minnows you can get some thriving 
boy to catch. Good-bye,” came back as the 
answer, followed by the sharp click as the 
speaker hung up the receiver. 
I recognized the voice of a fishing acquaint¬ 
ance, who from a short previous experience 
knew how the mere mention of the word “fish¬ 
ing” always drew my thoughts toward the lake 
at Hudson’s Park, and his hasty actions told 
me he was taking it for granted I would be 
there. 
Early morning found me standing on the 
wide dam, surveying the surroundings for some 
sign of the party I half expected to find, but I 
found I was first. 
A very short time was consumed in getting 
my tackle ready, and after a wide over-hand 
cast, the spinner touched the water beside a 
patch of willows. I repeated this several times 
with the spinner without results, then tried an 
artificial minnow. Then in despair I attached 
a live minnow to the line. A few minutes that 
seemed hours elapsed before it coaxed a half- 
pounder in my direction. Little bassie finally 
won, though, but he forgot to consider the pos¬ 
sibility of meeting such painful resistance when 
he started his fight for freedom. Fight all he 
would, that mysterious sharp thing held fast. 
CASTING FOR BASS. 
and I was just in the act of rehearsing an act 
that I hoped would happen frequently through¬ 
out the day, when the screech of an automobile 
horn told me of the arrival of a party of four, 
including my friend of the telephone. After in¬ 
troductions, all hands got out, and reels began 
clicking from five different parts of the lake. 
Nine o’clock and the scarcity of anticipated 
strikes began to turn the thoughts of my friend 
toward a new field. 
“Tried it over at the little railroad pond 
recently?” he asked as he reeled in after an 
enviable cast—he was much more skillful than 
any of the rest of us. 
“No, I haven’t tried lately, but the small boys 
report good fishing there. They say they will 
strike at anything.” 
“I have something that beats this,” he called 
to the others, as he stepped ashore from the 
little fishing boat. 
The comparatively new car soon whizzed us 
to our new field where the scene that met our 
anxious gaze was anything but encouraging. 
The surface of the water was covered with a 
dense moss, which made it next to impossible 
to fish with anything but live bait or a weedless 
fly that we chanced to have with us. We all 
agreed to try the fly first, and lucky for us 
we did. 
The thick moss forbade the use of a boat, but 
there was none and we were compelled to cast 
from shore. Luckily the mossy surface was 
perforated with a few openings from three to 
six inches in diameter, and when the fly would 
cross these, we were almost certain to strike 
something. The fish seemed viciously hungry 
and struck hard, and when hooked they gave 
us all we wanted to disentangle them from their 
mossy home. 
The shadows were shortening and pointed 
north as we made a halt for a lunch, but the 
tired feeling of a hard morning’s work soon 
left us with the few puffs of tobacco, and at 
1:30 we were at it again. 
We had failed to catch anything of any size, 
and we all set out to make some unusual catch. 
One end of a small arm of the pond, I noticed, 
was minus the moss, so I gradually worked that 
way. The shallow water seemed greatly dis¬ 
turbed, and on taking a second look, was sur¬ 
prised to see what looked to me like an eight- 
pounder. I backed out of sight for fear I 
might scare him, but my fly tipped the water 
five feet beyond him the first time and he never 
noticed it. But on second trial he could not 
resist the temptation and made one mighty rush 
and at the same instant I gently but firmly 
struck. He would not give up so easily, and 
it was as though I had struck a submerged 
stump, so stubborn was his resistance. For a 
full half minute he held firm, then he started a 
mad rush for deeper water. My reel fairly sang 
until the line tightened and I pulled him in a 
little. “Bring the net quick. I’ve snagged a 
whale,” I called, and in a few seconds my 
friend was here. I was half afraid to trust my 
limited skill with such a prize and half intended 
passing the rod to Bill, but I wanted the honor 
of landing the bass myself, and for the next 
few minutes I had my hands full. Finally I 
succeeded in bringing him back to shallow 
water, but still had a fight on my hands. Bill 
waded out with the net and at the first opening 
slipped it under him. 
As far as I was personally concerned, I was 
ready to get back to the neglected desk I had 
vacated the previous afternoon, but stayed a 
while to watch the others in their efforts to land 
a mate to my prize. 
The sun was rapidly sinking, so we again 
made tracks in the direction of the car with a 
good string of the inhabitants of the little pool, 
the king of them tipping the beam at four 
pounds and eight ounces. 
After that day I made a resolution that when 
some stunning business problem confronted me 
I would take my rod and go out to the park, 
and I have found, after a few hours with the 
bass, problems are always easy. 
The Forest and Stream may be obtained from 
any nezvsdealer on order. Ask your dealer to 
supply you regularly. 
