FOREST AND STREAM 
(566 
Making Good On A Fish Story 
By T. M. Tobin. 
H, that’s a fish story!” 
How many times you have heard that 
expression, reader, as applied to any 
statement that the hearer is inclined to doubt? 
It is a mighty handy way of telling a fellow he 
is lying without his getting real mad about it 
and it covers a wide range, not necessarily big 
fish catches, either. We had a little experience 
Out Came Illustrated Folder for Companion. 
on one of our trips, a real fish story, too, that 
was doubted and we were lucky enough to make 
good with it in a way that can rarely happen. 
My son Donald and myself captured a thirty- 
three inch salmon trout off Hinton Island, Island 
Lake, Algonquin Park, the summer of 1906. He 
held the fish up as shown while I got a snap 
shot just as he stepped from the canoe. Donald 
wore checked woolen knickerbockers, shoe 
pacs, sleeveless shirt and soft hat and it made a 
pretty good outing picture. The Grand Trunk 
people getting hold of it used the picture the next 
season on their illustrated descriptive folder of 
the Park As these folders have a map showing 
that region with the lakes, streams and portages 
well indicated they are usually carried by outing 
parties and guides. 
The season this folder appeared a party of 
four of us were returning from the Northern 
part of the Park on our way out and we stopped 
at Hinton Island for a few days fishing. While 
making camp eight canoes passed up the lake 
heading for a bit of sand beach a mile north 
of us which marks the beginning of a portage, 
where the party pitched their tents. 
The next forenoon we observed the newcomers 
scattered about the little bays, evidently fishing 
in places we had never been able to get a strike. 
In the afternoon, with one of our pary, I 
padded up to the sand beach and found a jolly 
crowd from Rochester, N. Y. They had con¬ 
structed a crude stand of white birch sticks on 
the beach, bar high, which was stacked with the 
most lavish collection of liquors even seen in 
those parts. 
As my friend and I were about to leave the 
spokesman remarked that they had fished without 
success all day and had come to the conclusion 
that there was not a fish in the lake. I told 
him we had never had any luck where we had 
seen them fishing, but we had always been able 
to catch plenty of fish in the deep water east 
of the island, indicating as well as I could with 
the wave of an arm, the zone of our success, 
at the same time telling them of the thirty-three 
inch salmon trout we landed the previous season. 
Inquiring for a Park folder a half dozen were 
produced by as many persons and turning to 
our catch I said, “Now that fish was caught by 
myself and son a year ago in that big fishing 
hole off the island,” and, to make my statment 
more forceful I added innocently, “and that is 
my son holding it up.” 
That is where I overreached, as they doubted 
my story anyway, I am sure, and when I said, 
“that’s my son,” the yarn was queered for sure 
and I had a feel that the crowd was saying to 
themselves, “He must think we are easy and is 
trying to feed us a fish story, all right.” 
As we paddled away I called out, “I’ll see 
what I can do for you.” At camp my son took 
my companion’s place in the canoe and we headed 
for deep water. Donald was dressed just as he 
was the year before even to hunting knife. With 
great luck a corking big salmon trout was landed 
after a lively scrap and stopping at camp only 
long enough to take a snap shot of the prize 
(as shown in the second picture) we headed for 
the Rochester camp with the rustic white birch 
sideboard. Donald in the bow seat. 
Seeing us coming the entire party greeted us 
as we drove the canoe well up on the sand 
beach. The big fish lay in the bottom of the 
canoe, amidship, looking mighty fine, too, es¬ 
pecially to a fishless crowd. They gazed at the 
catch in amazement and the spokesman broke 
out with, “What is it and where did you get it?” 
With another wave of an arm I said, “Oh, down 
there in that fishing hole I told you about.” 
Just then my son stepped out on the sand and 
picked up the fish. Then came my hour of 
triumph, the making good on a fish story. Out 
came illustrated folders for comparison and I 
had a mighty exultant feeling that they were 
saying. “We take it all back, old man, it was 
no fishy fish story you gave us, but the Gosoel 
truth, for here is a bigger fish and the identical 
fellow holding it up.” 
Someone suggested picture and there was a 
rush to tents for cameras. Hailing from the 
town that made the snap shot famous they were 
well equipped in this line and for a few minutes 
there was a merry clicking of shutters as every 
man in the party took his turn holding up the 
salmon trout for a picture. 
When this pleasing picture feature was over 
I presented the fish to the spokesman. This was 
another surprise and they protested, “That’s too 
much, you should not give that fish away.” 
With another grand wave of the arm I said, 
“Sure, we catch lots of ’em, and bigger ’n that, 
too, down in that fishing hole I was telling you 
about.” 
But say, reader, true to tradition, just a little 
excusible lie was tacked on at the finish, for the 
catch was really the biggest we ever made. 
As we paddled back to Hinton Island the 
whole bunch were gathered around the rustic 
white birch sideboard on the sand beach. 
OHIO’S EXPERIENCE WITH THE BOUNTY 
LAW. 
Columbus Ohio—The much discussed hawk one 
dollar bounty law passed by the Ohio legislature 
last winter, which went into effect on March xi, 
has proven a success as far as killing the birds is 
concerned. General John C. Speaks, chief game 
warden of the state estimates from official re¬ 
ports sent to his office from the various township 
clerks throughout the state up to June 30, that 
about 6,300 hawks have been killed. The reports 
show that 1,580 hawks were killed and presented 
to the township clerks for the one dollar bounty 
and General Speaks estimated that this number is 
but one-fourth of the number slaughtered. Many 
of the township officers objected to the law and 
made no appropriation for the payment of the 
bounty, the law providing that appropriations up 
to $200 in each township might be set aside to 
pay the bounty. Many townships appropriated 
but one dollar in order to comply with the law 
Then Came My Hour of Triumph—the Making 
Good on a Fish Story. 
and scores of hunters when they presented from 
two to four hawks killed were therefore unable 
to secure the bounty. 
C. B. Griffith, 
Secretary Columbus Anglers Club. 
