June 22, 1912 
FOREST AND STREAM 
787 
rapids above, a long stretch of shallow water 
below, plenty of deep water in which to fight 
the battle. ]\fy blood was up. The big fish 
were feeding in the night; that was why I had 
taken none during the days I had wandered up 
and down the old stream. But all was changed; 
with the setting of the sun my day of victory 
had dawned. 
“Close to the edge of the lower pool a bunch 
of golden rod offered shelter, so standing close 
to the marge, 1 sent my single white miller out 
through the mist. Two distinct splashes told me 
that it had descended amid the bunches of foam 
which I knew were circling ’round and ’round 
out there beneath the fog, the contribution of 
the rapids above. That fish I did not hook; it 
did that for itself. Oh, but he was a great 
fighter, just great. After a time I led him down 
stream, and when well away from the pool, into 
the net. That first capture was so large that I 
was unable to introduce him into my basket 
through the hole in the cover, but was compelled 
to open the top. 
“Wiping the perspiration from nn' forehead I 
was sweating in spite of the chilly night. I 
made my way back to the pool and cast again. 
Another fish promptly took my offering, a good¬ 
ly fish it was, too, and another battle was on. 
Oh, what sport it was! How the doughty rascal 
fought down beneath the fog and gloom of the 
night! What the struggling fish was doing of 
course I could not know, but I could hang to 
the rod, giving line only when I felt that I abso¬ 
lutely was compelled to do so. That fish, too, 
surrendered in due time, and I led him into the 
net there in the mists and deep shadows; my 
nostrils filled with the heavy odors of the reek¬ 
ing plants. 
“Four times I made that trip up to the pool, 
each time returning with a goodly fish, such 
fish as one seldom takes from the much-fished 
Pine River. Then the pool above the bridge 
gave up its leviathan, though it was not half so 
large as I imagined, when it rushed me and 
broke away; still it was a good fish. Every¬ 
where the trout were leaping; that is, in the 
pools; they were not to be found in the rapids. 
Up and down the stream I ranged, casting 
wherever the stream was open enough to war¬ 
rant my doing so. I speedily learned that I 
must give trees and all obstructions a wide 
berth, for it was woefully hard to judge dis¬ 
tances in the darkness. 
“Leaving the stream at the ‘Old Pine’ I fol¬ 
lowed the highway to where it touches the 
stream at the head of the meadow, and those 
deep pools, always unapproachable in the day 
time, were easy of access, and wonder of won¬ 
ders, their shy denizens could be caught. As 
my basket grew heavy, my heart grew corres 
pondingly light, and I developed a passionate 
fondness for the Welshman of few words. 
“Out of curiosity I changed my gray and white 
flies for those of dark colors, browns and blacks, 
but the fish would have none of them, and as 
soon as I returned to light flies again success 
was mine. Somewhere I have read that trout 
feed upon crickets in the night, and therefore 
black flies are to be selected for night fishing, 
but that night dark-colored feathers proved 
utterly unattractive. 
“At II o’clock the moon showed above the 
treetops, and coincident with her appearance the 
fish ceased feeding; either they would feed only 
in the ‘dark of the moon,’ or their hunger was 
satisfied. I did not linger long after they had 
ceased to bite; for why should I? I was more 
than satisfied. 
“When I reached the farmhouse, of course, I 
found the family in bed, and it was with utmost 
difficulty that I crept past the vocally sleeping 
Welshman’s bedroom door. I wanted to go in 
and hug him, for I felt that I owed him the 
evening’s sport. Strange as it may seem, since 
that summer I have never been able to visit the 
Pine River, but I am going again some time, 
and when I do, you may rest assured that I 
shall try night fishing on the Dane’s Meadow, 
even if some people consider it unsportsman¬ 
like.” 
Trailed by Timber Wolves 
O NE fall, after an unprecedented period of 
drouth. Captain L. asked me: “How would 
you like to take a load of produce to Corn¬ 
ing? You know that you will get several shots 
at turkeys and other game.” He knew my weak¬ 
ness for invading new regions and went into de¬ 
tails. 
“Corning is just twenty-five miles from Bethel 
bridge, on Little Black River, and it is one swamp 
clean through Clay county, Arkansas. The trip 
can be made now, as since the drouth you will 
find very little water, but instead plenty of 
bothersome sand. You can leave here by 4 p. m. 
and by taking it slowly, you can reach Corning 
by morning. You know where the bridge is at 
the foot of the hills? I can only give you an 
idea of the route. You will just have to guess 
the logging roads from there. Do you want to 
try it?” 
I knew why he wished me to make the trip 
during the cool of night. It would be less effort 
for the team, and the return with an empty 
wagon during the heat of day would not be 
much of a task for the wiry mares, Duke and 
Daisy, 
By 4 o’clock I had crossed the rather risky 
contrivance for a bridge and was in the swamps 
For a short distance T found the trail good, and 
by circuitous windings and unprepared devia¬ 
tions managed to avoid tfie holes of liquid mud. 
Just then the two does belonging to the captain 
put in appearance. They had trailed the team 
Clo was a questionably bred Irish setter, a very 
ordinary shooting dog, but one of the most de- 
By J. B. THOMPSON 
termined scrappers I had ever seen; in fact, she 
would fight anything irrespective of size or kind. 
Prince, her running mate, was a spaniel—our 
standby for turkey or duck. While Prince had 
won no renown as a fighter—invariably meeting 
with defeat—he had not lost hope, for he tried 
every animal he met with under the commend¬ 
able inspiration that he would eventually gain 
the same prestige in fighting as his more favored 
red companion. 
I knew the futility of trying to drive the rogues 
home, for an attempt only resulted in their has¬ 
tening to cover, to appear later a hundred yards 
ahead of the team, perfectly unconscious that I 
had objected to their presence a moment ago. 
WOLF hunters’ cabin. 
But in the big woods of giant water oak and 
slashes of still larger and more stately cypress, 
I appreciated the companionship. Clo was a 
nuisance, spoiling several nice opportunities at 
turkeys, but the gray squirrels were plentiful 
and I shot several for supper. 
Keeping a trail leading southeast, I crossed a 
cypress brake just as the sun dropped behind the 
barriers of huge timber, then I came to a clear¬ 
ing of about twelve acres. At a house near the 
road I stopped and watered my team, the two 
women on the porch wondering no doubt, what 
I was doing at that late hour in the swamps. 
Rehooking the team to the single trees I heard 
the elder of the two say to her companion: 
“Dit a lui pour rester jusque la lune s’eleve!” 
I answered in French: “Thank you, I will go 
to the end of the lane as far as the road into 
the Palatka swamp, and camp there until the 
moon comes up. That is, if it is the right road 
to Corning.” 
Assured that I was on the right route, and 
also informed that they were Canadians, and that 
their men were getting out ship timber for a 
New Orleans contractor, I went on my way and 
pitched my camp on a deep slough. Now. it 
made an especially fine camping place, the marsh 
grass was plentiful, so Daisy and Duke rested 
contented in devouring the luscious growth after 
they had eaten their meal of oats. I began sup¬ 
per, Prince and Clo eyeing my every movement 
with expectations of a generous share. The 
Duprez dog—Duprez was the name of the family 
where I watered—a large cur. ventured near camp 
