FOREST AND STREAM 
29 
“Kingfisher” and Starbuck in Real Life—A “Reminiscent” 
By Will C. Parsons. 
Some time ago I mentioned to one of the For¬ 
est and Stream’s family that, ‘way back, I had 
known Alexander Starbuck and also the “King¬ 
fishers.” From what I said he evidently got the 
impression that I was a “bos’m” friend of theirs, 
and had white whiskers like Santa Claus, and so 
he requested me to write something in a “remi- 
nescent mood” about the men. 
That frightened me! I peeked into the glass 
and saw there a good deal of gray, and some 
white hair. Then I made a dive for the col¬ 
legian’s school dictionary and rapidly shuffled the 
deck until Rem turned up from the bottom. 
Here is what the dictionary man said: Remin¬ 
iscence —That faculty o‘f the mind by which ideas 
formerly received into it, but forgotten (the ital¬ 
ics are mine) are recalled or revived in the 
memory. 
Nothing doing, 'for the ideas were 
not forgotten. 
Let’s see, “reminiscent” now? 
“Reminiscent —one who calls to mind 
and records past events.” That’s all 
right: I’m “an reminiscent.” 
In the eighties I was attending old 
Farmer’s College (where Murat Hal¬ 
stead, the editor-author, and also an¬ 
other fdlow who made a fortune out of 
the manufacture of a patent medicine 
got their rudiments) ; and this institu¬ 
tion of learning was situate at College 
Hill. That village is now a suburb of 
greater Cincinnati. 
Forest and Stream was one of the 
chief ends of my week—and it is now, 
for that matter! I read it from cover to 
cover, advertisements and all, and the 
more gun and dog ads the paper carried, 
the more I liked it! 
It was two miles and a half down hill 
to Cumminsville, where one took the 
mulemobile to Cincinnati, and it was two 
million miles and a half up hill when 
one returned from the city! It took 
over an hour to ‘boss” car it down to 
Pop Hawley’s in Vine street where the 
good old paper was sold. If Pop hap¬ 
pened to he out of the issue when I hit 
there, gloom a foot deep settled over the 
landscape, and my Sunday was all shot to pieces. 
Pop had other publications, but none “just as 
good” as my paper! 
Alexander Starbuck, “Ned,” and the north 
shore of Lake Superior were then but words 
upon paper for me; but the number of names 
Mr. Starbuck could call a speckled trout, and not 
spell “trout” with five letters set my immature 
brain gyrating. 
“An irridescent leaper of the nectarious wa¬ 
ters” was a comparatively simple name for the 
trout in those days! 
I don’t know where Mr. Starbuck got all 
those adjectives but— he had ’em! 
In cold type I followed the canoe of this pen- 
master, and the jovial “Ned,” from the “Soo” to 
Thunder Cape, and back again. He made his 
readers see the leap of the trout from his lair 
among the jagged rocks: made them hear the 
song- of the reel, and feel the writhing of the 
good old split bamboo. He let his readers “in” 
on the comments that flew from one canoe to an¬ 
other as the “big one” sawed the leader and 
broke away. 
At night, he let us sit by the camp fire, and as 
the sparks snapped heavenward, we listened to 
the two Solomons of the fishing clan. At that 
time mental negatives of the region were so 
clearly set in my brain that in after years, when 
good fortune allowed me to visit the locality, lo, 
it was the work of but a moment to take one of 
Mr. Starbuck’s negatives out of its cerebral cav¬ 
ity, and have a contact print either by sunlight or 
by the camp fire! 
A man who could picture a scene as he did— 
and truthfully—was a master writer! 
College days past, the grind in the newspaper 
mill began. The old Cuvier Club's room in 
Longworth street was the Mecca. 
There, at some of the big game suppers and 
banquets, I saw Mr. Starbuck, and had the pleas¬ 
ure of shaking him by the hand, and tried to tell 
him in a stammering, bashful way, what good he 
had done the callow youth. I met him as a vas¬ 
sal would a king. Our spheres were different; 
and revolved in separate orbits! I was a 22 cali¬ 
bre “pill” while he was a “14-inch mortar” 
throwing lyddite! But—I had met him; I had 
shaken hands with my hero ! 
Men listened when that sage spoke! 
I can see him yet; can hear his voice; but 
above all stands out that wonderful series of 
words paintings he gave us so long ago. Their 
colors cannot fade. 
And then, there were “The Camps of the 
Kingfishers.” 
Remember the voyages in “Old Ironsides?” 
Remember “Sairey Ann,” “Old Sam,” and the 
cheery song of “an’ airey a picker-ell?” 
In fancy I camped wth this jolly party; dipped 
into the “blue gill” pockets ( holes he called 
’em) ; tore my way through the “bresh” along 
the trout brooks; and met the wall-eyed pike, 
and other candidates for the pan. I sat, as the 
camp fire flickered, and (mentally) took part in 
the josh and chaff of this premier band of 
campers. 
I was still in Cincinnati, but had visited many 
of the places made famous by “Kingfisher” in his 
stories printed in Forest and Stream. I ven¬ 
tured to write something that attracted the at¬ 
tention of the party’s chronicler and he called 
upon me. 
What an honor! I had been admitted to the 
Adjunct to the Agriculturist. 
blue lodge of fishery! I can see him now; a 
quiet, gray-headed gentleman, wearing spectacles. 
He worked in the Cincinnati post office, and if I 
“reminiscent” correctly, made no claims as an 
author. He was, though! 
He did his work for amusement and pastime. 
I wonder if he ever knew the good he accom¬ 
plished? I tried to tell him! 
Is he dead? If he is he has left a monument 
behind him more enduring than stone! 
His tales of the “blue gills,” the small-mouths, 
the grouse, and the red squirrels will live long 
after marble has crumbled and granite disinte¬ 
grated. 
“Kingfisher” held the mirror up to nature, and 
caught her reflection! As a boy, I loved him; 
as a man reverence him. Reminiscent — NOT 
reminiscence! 
Photo by A. Radclyffe Dugmo-re (Copyrighted) 
A Picture That Proves the Beaver an 
