thing to tempt the appetite. They never had to 
try very hard to tempt my appetite and I noticed 
there were others who needed no coaxing. One’s 
taste seems to run toward the abundant fish, the 
succulent clams and lobsters, all of which are 
prepared in such a savory way as to satisfy the 
most exacting connoisseur. As we leave the eat 
etnporium, we remember we have been counting 
on a deep-sea fishing trip; but we must find a 
fellow to take us out, so we wander on down to 
the wharf where we find Bern Johnson clean¬ 
ing up his boat. To introduce Bernard Johnson, 
he weighs around two hundred pounds, stands 
over six feet and is just as good natured as he 
is big—perhaps more so- His laugh is a tonic 
for tired nerves, once heard, always remembered. 
Bernard is too long a name so everyone calls 
him Bern, a small name for so Ibig a man. We 
find he has no party for the following day so 
acquaint him with the fact that we would like 
to try our luck at deep-sea fishing. “Well—let’s 
see,” says Bern, “I got to take a crowd over to 
Casco Castle this afternoon. Yes, I guess I can 
fix things for to-morrow. I’ve got a party of 
five up from Boston for day after to-morrow 
and I’ve offered a dollar a bushel for bait. Yes, 
I’ll run up to Orr’s Island for bait and will be 
waiting for you. Be down early, for the sooner 
we start the better.” The bargain is clinched at 
“one buck” each, Bern furnishing the tackle and 
bait—(not the kind in a bottle). As we return 
to the house it starts to rain, but who cares? 
To-day is not to-morrow so we turn in early. 
All sounds are now stilled, all except the sigh¬ 
ing wind and the patter; patter, of the rain 
which are pleasant sounds sinking into one’s 
senses, bringing a deep peace of mind. We sleep 
as though there were no troubles in the world; 
certainly there are none waiting for us in the 
morning, for the day breaks fresh and fair. The 
sheen of the bay is coming back from where it 
retreated the night before and across the re- 
ceeding shadows a flock of gulls wing their way 
along the shore for a morning meal. 
By the time inner man has been satisfied with 
a goodly portion of fried sword-fish—ever had 
any? the bay is all a glitter. Bern is waiting 
for us at the wharf. Then all aboard Cap’n, 
let’er go! The motor hums and as we turn the 
lower end of the island, breast the first gentle 
swells of the Atlantic, passing Jaquish Island 
on the right, off which Bern has a fish pound. 
What is a fish-pound? Listen, and I will try 
and tell you. This one is sixty-five by ninety 
feet square, made entirely of net, the four sides 
being fifty feet deep. The pound is anchored 
well off shore away from the rocks and running 
out from the shore to one of the sides is a heavy 
rope called the “lead.” This also has a deep net 
dropped from it and where it meets the side of 
the pound is a door. The fish follow the lead 
and so through the door into the pound. The 
hauls are made twice a day—weather permitting. 
One side is worked up at a time starting from 
the corner and the fish are brought to the side 
of the boat. Bern told us that one season, he 
and his partner made a thousand dollars between 
them in a little over two days’ time, mostly 
mackerel and butter-fish. It is not always clear 
profit though for occasionally a pound is de¬ 
stroyed by a storm and the outfit costs about 
five hundred dollars. A fisherman never knows 
FOREST AND STREAM 
what the sea has in store for him as was demon¬ 
strated one day the past season when Johnson 
found in his haul, taken off Half Way Rock, a 
sea mouse measuring nearly fifty inches in 
length, the largest ever taken off Portland. The 
sea mouse is a free moving marine annelid of 
the family Aphrodite, the most highly organized 
of the “world of worms.” The body is oval, 
the head is provided with tentacles and two 
eyes, and the back is covered with scales which 
by their expansion and contraction provide for 
the admission and expulsion of water from the 
gills. The most noticeable feature, however, is 
the beautiful irridescent hues of the hairs along 
the sides of the body. The length of the average 
sea mouse is not oyer three inches and they are 
seldom caught along this coast. 
But to come back to the subject, mile after 
mile we sail until the mainland and islands 
merge into one, and presently as we pass Ragged 
Island, little objects appear on the horizon. 
These we find to be fishing boats that started 
earlier; and, drawing nearer, in one of them we 
see two men busily occupied in paying out a 
baited line which we are told is a trawl. “Hello, 
Ben!” cried Bern to one of the men, “any dogs 
around?” (meaning dog-fish). Yep, a few,” is 
the ansiwer, and Bern decides to go further out 
—perhaps a mile or so. For those who are not 
familiar with the workings of a trawl, I would 
say that it is one continuous line, sometimes 
three miles in length. At every six feet on this 
line a shorter drop line is attached with a bait¬ 
ed hook at the end. The line is coiled up in a 
tub at the back of the boat and payed out slow¬ 
ly, as the boat is propelled along, and at certain 
distances apart the line is attached to a float, or 
keg. It is some work setting a trawl but harder 
still pulling in the catch. The fish hook them¬ 
selves, and some days the catch is very heavy. 
The anchor is now cast overboard and Bern 
gets the lines ready. We use what is known as 
a 5b. b. Burnham cotton line with No. 10 gravi¬ 
tation hook and a 1 1 A pound sinker—-some sinker. 
Squid bait is used and from one to three fish 
put on a hook, just a mouth full for a large 
pollock. Lines are thrown out and soon, some¬ 
one feling a bite, gives a quick pull and in comes 
the line with a twelve pound cod at the end. 
“Hello, its my turn, I feel something on my line!” 
another quick pull and although it keeps me 
busy, he is finally landed and I find I have a 
twenty pound pollock. Things are getting very 
busy when someone slips a remark—better left 
untold. Why is he not pleased? Well because 
he has landed a large dog-fish. Dog-fish are 
good for nothing so with the aid of Bern’s fish- 
knife, things quiet down again, when someone 
yells, what s that?’ and looking in the direc¬ 
tion indicated we see the knife-like fin of a 
shark cleave the water and disappear beneath the 
boat. Shortly I feel something, and giving a 
pull, the line draws tight—nothing doing. “Well 
Bern, I’ve got the anchor-rope or the bottom this 
time. No. it’s giving a little. Guess you’ll have 
to lend a hand.” “Don’t break your line! let it 
go a little,” he replies, “and I’ll come over with 
the gaff. By a good bit of pulling I get what¬ 
ever it is to the surface, and then we find it to 
be the shark we saw a few seconds before. And 
did Bern jab him with the gaff? Well, he gave 
that shark the jab of his life. There was fish 
89 
gore over everything but Mr. Shark was all in, 
proving to be a seventy-five pounder—not as 
large as some but plenty large enough for me. 
Here is where the old clothes come in. Old 
woolen trousers or oil-skins and a shirt you are 
not afraid of spoiling, for things get very slimy 
and wet. The dogs became so numerous the fish¬ 
ing was spoiled for the rest of the day; and as 
we had near two hundred pounds of fish, up 
comes the anchor; chug, chug goes the motor and 
we start for the island. 
Few of us who sit down to a broiled live 
lobster, little realize what the lobster industry 
really means to a place like Portland. One would 
hardly believe the vast numbers handled each 
season at this city alone. All out through the 
islands, the water is dotted with lobster buoys 
marking the location of lobster traps at the bot¬ 
tom. Each lobster fisherman has his own par¬ 
ticular buoy that he easily distinguishes from 
the rest. The legal length of a lobster is 4 % 
inches, and it is a common sight to see the fish¬ 
erman out in his motor boat or dory pulling in 
the traps, measuring the lobsters, keeping the big 
ones and throwing back the little fellows. Kettle 
Bottom and Cashes Ledge are two of the deep- 
sea grounds where many of the finest lobsters 
come from. Considering the fact that the annual 
catch of lobsters at Bailey’s Island alone is 140 
thousand, one would hardly conceive the vast 
numbers handled at Portland. But—pshaw, 
what’s the use? you would not believe it. 
Our vacation draws to a close, it is our last 
day and we must make the most of our time. 
The wind has been blowing hard for two days 
and we, knowing what awaited us, walked to the 
outside of the island where the cliffs are exposed 
to the full sweep of the Atlantic. What a glori¬ 
ous sight it was. Time and again the spray went 
completely over the tap of the rocky heights. I 
can see it now, as it comes rolling and tumbling 
in over the rocks, throwing its spray high in the 
air, dashing so madly against the high barriers 
beyond which Nature has said “Thus far and no 
furtherBut we must take our last look, then 
hurry back and pack up for the afternoon boat. 
Regretfully we turn away, as one comes back 
from a vacation; leaving behind the woods and 
green fields. Yes, Bailey’s, with its picturesque 
scenery and restful atmosphere is a charming 
spot to live in anticipation of. It is a place of 
quiet recreation to those who find joy in living 
close to nature, away from the noise and turmoil 
of the busy city; a place where we are constantly 
led by an unseen power toward health and 
strength and a greater confidence in ourselves 
and love for the Almighty. As the boat left the 
wharf, there was the usual “good bye” and as 
we sailed down Casco Bay we took our last look 
at Bailey’s. A softness in the clear air robbed 
the islands of their rocky crags. The sun sank 
lower and lower, the voice of nature was hushed, 
and as the dusk of evening crept up and closed 
in about us we found ourselves again in Port¬ 
land. 
When one thinks of Portland, it brings to 
mind the poetry by Longfellow: 
Often I think of the beautiful town 
That is seated by the sea; 
Often in thought go up and down 
The pleasant streets of that dear old town, 
And my youth comes back to me. 
